Three Miles to Dol Guldur
by The-Mad-Lemon
Summary: Mirkwood finds itself in a state of crisis - traitorous schemes to bring down Mirkwood from the inside, a captive prince and the most notorious elf to ever live all play a part, but can the forest realm survive?
1. On Patrol

**Disclaimer: ****He, he, he – I'm only 167 years away from gaining ownership over the world and consequently **_**ownership over Tolkiens' inventions**_**. *Stirs up the poison that will kill all the lawyers who dare oppose me* Now to RULE THE WORLD!!!! *Drops vial***___**FUDGECAKE!!!**___

**Summary: ****"It's so sinister and foreboding; it's unnatural. Like the air itself is an agent of the enemy…" **

"**We're three miles from Dol Guldur. The air here is an agent of the enemy." **

**Warnings: AU, horror, angst, torture in later chapters. **

**AN: This is the predecessor of 'Finding the Reasons, Fighting the Truth.' **

"Did you _see _the look on her face?"

"No! I'll bet it was classic though!"

"It sure was!"

Legolas laughed. He loved being out on patrol, especially since it meant being with his two best friends; he hadn't seen them in a while. After all, he had been cooped up in the infirmary for the best part of two weeks. It was good to get a breath of fresh air again and to be able to talk and joke beneath the tall trees of Mirkwood.

"Seriously Birien, she looked like she'd just been slapped," Lethiwen gossiped. He did a surprising amount of that for a boy.

"Now, now; I'm sure the poor girl doesn't deserve such spiteful comments…" chided General Tyrilden, although it wasn't hard to see the sparkle of merriment twinkling in his eyes.

"Don't lie Sir; it really doesn't become you," Legolas replied lightly.

"And cheek won't become you in a minute, _Your Highness_."

"_I __BEG__ YOUR PARDON!_ What is that supposed to mean exactly? You weren't _threatening_ your King's son now, were you?" Legolas asked, with mock incredulity. Tyrilden just laughed and rode off closer to the front of the group.

"So, where exactly are we going again?" asked Lethiwen.

"To hunt out a bunch of spiders that were spotted rather close to the realm, Lethy; that's the eleventh time I've had to tell you that. And he wonders why he gets bad marks in exams," Legolas muttered to himself, with a hint of amused exasperation.

"I do not get bad marks in exams! – I simply don't always perform to my potential," retorted Lethiwen in a poor attempt at keeping his pride and dignity intact. "And it was the tenth time for your information," he added.

"Eru help me," Legolas sighed to the heavens.

"What in Udûn are you singing Birien?" Said Lethiwen with a quick change of subject, staring at his friend as though he was senile.

"_With a tumtiddle tiddle, tumtiddle tiddle,_

_That's how she came._

_With a rumtumma tumma, rumtumma tumma, _

_Singing down the lane…" _

"Interesting song choice," remarked an amused Legolas.

"Yeah, I heard Gandalf singing it once – he said something about doing the Rohirric Highland fling to it. I guess it got kind of stuck in my head."

"The Rohirric Highland fling? YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO THE HIGHLAND FLING TO THAT?" Lethiwen shouted disbelievingly.

"Don't _shout_ Lethy! People are looking," Birien whispered nervously, noticing the curious, if not agitated stares of the other warriors.

"Gandalf doing the Highland fling!" Legolas said under his breath, ignoring there newly acquired audience and then immediately went into stitches. The others soon followed suite and before long the tears were tripping the noisy threesome.

"Alright you three, quieten down a bit; there's talk over there of two murders and an assassination plan," Tyrilden joked.

"Okay, okay, we'll shut up," Legolas said drying his eyes. "But it's just so…f-f-FUNNY," He broke up laughing again.

Tyrilden rolled his eyes and smiled at them. "What, might I ask is so amusing?"

This only served to make them laugh even harder. Tyrilden however, did not see what exactly was so hilarious and finally opted to leave them to their antics and went off with a rather bemused look on his face. "I give up, I really do."

The simultaneous pelt of mirth that rose with that comment got more than a few irritated glares and tuts.

"AWWW my stomach – I'm dying!" Lethiwen wailed, clutching his abdomen in a very overdramatic manner.

"LETHY SHUT UP! WHY HAVE YOU _ALWAYS_ GOT TO SAY SUCH COMICAL THINGS?! IT'S CURRENTLY NOT HELPING!!!" Legolas too, was clutching his stomach, his face completely drenched in tears.

"AHHH IT'S TOO MUCH – I NEED A PEEEEEEEEE!!"

"BIRIEN – _**STOP IT!!!!!" **_

(Five hours later).

"Yes, Birien but I still think we should catch a spider and put it in his bedroom – I mean, what a wake-up surprise!"

"Yeah, he hates the things – he'll scream the house down. I can't wait to see the look on his face; Valar this is going to be so good…"

They'd been riding for the best part of two days and would soon be nearing the border of the forest. But still there was no sign of the spiders or even an indication as to where they might have gone.

"Tyrilden, don't you think it kind of, well _freaky_ that those spiders have just vanished? I mean, it's like they've teleported or something," Lethiwen looked up at the general, hoping for an explanation.

"Urrggh, spiders with supernatural powers; that's the next of it," said Legolas distastefully. He was getting weary and fed-up with the whole situation. But of course, being a Prince he didn't show it – that wouldn't do for royalty at all.

"Do you actually suppose they've developed some sort of super-power, I mean it's possible isn't it?" Birien looked behind him as though expecting to see a spider with wings and eyes able to fry you on the spot zooming straight at him.

"Don't be daft Biri. You talk so much tripe; it's unbelievable," said Lethiwen, finding his friends gullibility quite amusing.

"Well, I don't know; it's scary and I don't like it."

"None of us do Birien, and you're right – there is something strange at work here, something very strange." Tyrilden gazed out into the distance, a wary look painted on his features. A look that often passed over the countenance of a skilled and experienced warrior.

"Do you think something else has already killed them?" Legolas asked softly, starting to feel slightly frisky.

"Orcs? No; they would leave tracks and we have found none."

"No. I mean…elves." The tone of Legolas' voice clearly implied that he wasn't referring to any of the elves allied to Mirkwood.

Tyrilden looked at him and stated quietly, "It _was_ elves wasn't it." He knew that Legolas had a rather unnerving sixth sense, and when you were out in the middle of Mirkwood, in potentially hostile territory, one did not ignore the warnings of a person with such an ability.

"I'm pretty sure it was."

"Your 'pretty sure' is good enough for me." And with that the general rode of to inform the rest of the party on the dire situation.

For if it was elves that Legolas had sensed, then the situation was indeed very dire.

But General Tyrilden never got to inform anyone on anything. And that was why the attack was such a sudden and unexpected shock to the rest of the warriors.

They just appeared seemingly out of thin air.

In the end, Birien's suggestion on the enemy having superpowers wasn't all that comical after all. It was, to everyone's horror, quite a realistic truth.

With a screech that clove the air, the first Nazgul charged at the disorganized elves, effectively scattering them and eliminating any possibility of a formation. Legolas quickly dismounted, pulled his knife out and watched in dismay as yet another Ringwraith joined the frenzied skirmish. If one could even call it a skirmish, it was probably more akin to a heinous massacre. Legolas pulled himself out of his mobilising shock and mentally prepared to clash blades with the foreboding foes, but Tyrilden got to him first. Pulling the Prince back, he attempted to put as much distance between Legolas and the Nazgul.

"Legolas, go! Go now, we cannot win – _get out of here!_"

"I can't abandon you all! _I won't leave you here to die!_ What kind of person would that make me?!"

Tyrilden never got to answer for it was just at that moment that he was grabbed from behind by an arcane source. Legolas lunged after him in panic, fearing the worst.

And indeed it was the worst.

"Legolas RUN!" Tyrilden thrashed against the arms holding him but to no avail. There was no way anyone could've gotten out of such a persons grip.

With a suffocating feeling of remorse and sorrow, Legolas took the general's last advice, realising the hopelessness of the situation and ran over to his terrified mount. Swinging his leg over the mare's back he let out a roar, "PULL BACK!! PULL BACK NOW!" A mounting sense of trepidation surged through his body and he jerked his head around in search of his friends.

_They were still alive. _

Hearing Legolas' shout of retreat, Lethiwen and Birien dodged there way out of the battle, remarkably unscathed and grabbed the reins of the nearest horses. But they were too slow, for one of the Ringwraiths noticed their withdrawal and seemingly flew towards them, cutting down any in its path. Before the two novices had realised their impending doom, the servant of Sauron was upon them. Grabbing Lethiwen around the throat with an iron glove, it threw him down onto the ground and secured him there with a heavy foot against his chest. Birien had no time to react before he too was floored.

Legolas' heart stopped beating. The world seemed to slow down to a surreal haze of colours and sounds. He was unaware of the fact that he was shouting the names of his friends over and over or that he had stopped his retreat. He was only pulled out of his dazed consciousness by the shaking of a fellow warrior.

"MY LORD!!! YOU CAN DO NOTHING FOR THEM; WE CANNOT LINGER!"

Legolas' utilitarian attributes jolted into action; he was a prince, it was his duty therefore to save the most number of lives. Regretfully, risking the lives of fifteen for the lives of two friends was not an option.

Kicking his horse into action he urged it in the direction of his father's realm, the remaining warriors close behind him. They did not stop until they were almost six leagues away from the terrible incident for the horses could not keep up such speeds for much longer.

Bringing the war party to a halt, Legolas turned his horse about and stared back the way they had come. He felt nauseous with guilt and sorrow. _Like a betrayer_. He had left the general and his two best friends to the mercy of the Nazgul. And moreover, to the mercy of the one who had coordinated the attack.

'_What mercy?' _thought Legolas spitefully. Such an elf had no mercy. He felt tears spring into his eyes but he refused to let them fall. _'Later. Not here, not now. These warriors are looking to me for guidance.' _Legolas hated it. He hated having to take initiative and control in situations like these. All he wanted to do was to throw himself unto the ground and cry all his misery and grief out, but his status would not let him. Nor would the dubious looks that the other warriors were giving him. He was their leader and he needed to act like one.

"Why do they not follow?" asked one of the warriors.

"Perhaps they want us to follow them." Legolas was thinking logically.

"What should we do?"

"Opherion, Fernendir – you are both injured. Travel back to my father and inform him of the situation."

Legolas watched the two warriors comply; he already knew what his plan for the rest of them was, but he wasn't sure how they would react to it.

"My Lord?"

"We ride back the way we came until we get to where the attack took place. Then we dismount and continue tracking them on foot."

The others stared; gaping.

"Have you lost your _mind?" _one of them hissed.

"Do not talk to him so!" retorted another.

"If that's your attitude then you can take the horses back to the realm once we reach the battle site," Legolas replied curtly.

"Very well, Your Highness; I will, but do not expect me to explain to the King just what folly it was that killed his son!" the warrior snapped.

"_Coward!_" another growled.

"Enough," said Legolas quietly. "Let him go. What I ask of you is no small thing and refusing doesn't make him a coward." He looked around at the attentive warriors. "It probably marks him as the only one with any sense," he finished solemnly. The warriors continued to gaze on with passive expressions. "If there is anyone else who wishes to leave then do so now. Neither I nor any one else will think less of you if you do. You have my word on that." He glanced at the elf who had called out 'coward'. "But if you do choose to come then I can't give you my word that you will still be respected if you if you desert us half way through. Am I understood?" His voice held an edge that harboured no argument.

"Yes, My Lord," came the unanimous response.

The elf that had previously refused to come just turned his horse about, looked at the elves he had abandoned and whispered, "You're all insane." With that, he galloped off into the deep, formidable gloom of the forest.

Legolas just watched him go; his gaze utterly nonchalant.

"Let's go."

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Review?


	2. Trip of Trepidation

_**The blab's on the first chappy. But apologies for the tiny mistake – I said that this was the predecessor of 'Finding the Reasons, Fighting the Truth', but it's the successor. Sorry, my lethargic brain was playing up as usual. Well, I suppose it's what I get for my daily routine: going to sleep at 4:30am, getting up at 7:30 and then spending 7 hours in school. ***__**sigh**__*****_

_**Jamie-Erin:**____Yes, this one is quite intense and it only gets worse, he, he. I agree about make-up being a rip-off. To be honest, here in London everything down to a crisp is a rip-off! Good luck with your move – I know how annoying it can be…_

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"Let's go."

The remaining company began to head back along the way they had came, each and every one wondering if their comrades parting words were true: If they were actually all insane. Legolas lead them at an even paced gallop, his eyes scanning out for their previous tracks for which to follow. The whole mission was absurd and he knew it. He just hoped and prayed to the Valar that no lives would be lost, for the blame would inevitably be placed on his head. But if it was indeed their fate to die then he sincerely hoped that he would die with them; there was no way he would be able to live with the guilt of having sacrificed fifteen of his men and be the only survivor.

He reflected on the battle - it had been so sudden. Legolas knew that the Nazgul could move silently when necessary so it was no real surprise that they had been ambushed. _'What if Biri and Lethy and I hadn't have talked so much or so loud – perhaps I would've sensed the Ringwraith's presence before I did.' _But Legolas knew that it wouldn't have made any difference and at any rate, even if it had, there was no way of erasing the past. It had taken place and that was that.

"My Lord, what do you suppose Jarvek's intentions are? He has obviously been tracking us, but why did he not follow when we retreated?" One of the elves queried.

"He wants us to come after him; he expects us to."

"Then why are we comply---"

"Because we aren't going to confront him. We just need to keep him in our hearing range so we know where he's headed and what his schemes are. My gut response is that he's going to Dol Guldur, but we need to make sure, otherwise when my father sends the rescue parties out they won't have any idea where to go."

"But My Prince, would he really believe that we would attack him with a mere fifteen warriors?" The elf was persistent.

"Not attack. Perhaps distract. In my opinion I think he's expecting us to try and outwit him. They were on foot, although it's likely that they have steeds somewhere nearby but he's probably relying on the presumption that we'll assume they had no mounts," Legolas began. "To get to Dol Guldur you have to go over a river and there's no way around it. The Nazgul would never go over it without horses; it just wouldn't happen. Jarvek will be expecting us to use this to our advantage. We could go across the river before them and confront them on the opposite side; the Nazgul wouldn't be a threat then. We distract them enough so that the captives pull free and get across the river to our side – assuming they are not critically injured or… Dead." He stopped for a moment, the realisation that his friends could already be dead finally hitting him. Pulling himself together, he continued. "We could then take to the trees and split up so that Jarvek would have a hard time pursuing us and we would've effectively foiled his plan. But he has another. Once we reach the river he will have reinforcements waiting. Orcs. And if they do have horses then the Nazgul will have probably ridden on with the captives before we get there, so our whole plan will have been completely futile and we'll be left to face Jarvek and a whole horde of orcs, something I don't ever intend to have to do." All the warriors were listening attentively to their prince. "But we're not going to play by his rules. I don't know what his ultimate intention is; it's quite likely that it's to capture me," he added matter-of-factly. "But at any rate we must follow him and try to keep one step ahead. We need to get an idea of just what exactly he's planning to do by all this and going back to the realm first would take too long. We may well have lost him by then."

"He will hear us will he not? Regardless of how well we stealth; this _is_ Jarvek we're talking about," one remarked.

"That's a risk we have to take. There's no other way around it. We _can't _lose him. It could be catastrophic."

"My Prince, you should not endanger yourself like this. Not if his plan is indeed to capture you," another stated quietly.

"Who else is here to command you?"

No answer.

"You must understand. Jarvek is a genius. He may be sadistic, malicious and completely sick, but he's a genius nonetheless. His plans change in the blink of an eye. He might not even be expecting us to follow him to the river; that was only a guess! But that's all the more reason to track him. _We need to know what he is doing._ We're not doing this to rescue our comrades straightaway – that would be complete folly. We just need to spy on him and find out what exactly his real intentions are. For example, if he wanted to capture me then why not do it when he had the chance? It wouldn't have been hard. Like I said: My logic was only an educated guess, nothing more, but it's the only thing I can come up with and I can't see another reason why he would capture both of my friends if it wasn't to try and get me. I know this is dangerous for all of us and I know many of you don't approve of me putting myself in this situation." The expressions on the others faces confirmed his suspicions. "I may be a prince, but my kingdom comes before my own life. And besides, it's not like I'm the only heir," he remarked casually. "Now, are you with me or not?" he looked around at his warriors.

"Yes, My Lord."

"Then let's hurry up and get there."

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"They went east from here," said Legolas examining the tracks leading away from the battle-site. "About four hours ago… Come on," he said after the warrior who had went to relieve himself had came back.

They had left the horses, telling them to make all speed back to the realm. His father would undoubtedly be livid – half out of anger for the 'stupidity' of his 'naïve' son and the other half out of inconsolable worry over Legolas' wellbeing. Still, as Legolas had said: it was necessary. They walked for hours, carefully following the footprints – two pairs of large, heavy imprints and four pairs of lighter and smaller ones.

"No horse prints…" Legolas muttered to himself a while later. They had been walking for miles on end; surely if Jarvek had brought steeds with him they would have already been riding them before now…

"Take to the trees," ordered Legolas out-of-the-blue and the others quickly and willingly complied. Legolas was nervous. It seemed to be that Jarvek was making it as impossible as he could for them. He obviously had a different plan than that which Legolas had assumed and that was not a pleasant thought. Although Legolas wasn't actually all that surprised; it _was_ Jarvek they were dealing with after all. The trees gave them a bird's eye view of their surroundings, so a surprise attack would be less attainable, if that was perhaps what he had in mind. Moving silently, Legolas led the party through the dense forest, listening unceasingly for any noise that would indicate Jarvek's whereabouts. The only noise however was the creaking of the trees and the whisper of the wind. But still Legolas led them on, using his unrivalled eyesight to follow the tracks on the ground even from his airborne position.

The air seemed to be getting thicker and heavier with every mile they travelled, and the resolve of the warriors was beginning to waver. But they continued on mindful to keep silent and vigilant lest Jarvek attempted another ambush. It was now nightfall and still there was no sign of either the captors or the captives. Just as Legolas considered stopping for the night as seeing the tracks was becoming increasingly difficult, there was a distant sound of low conversation. They were too far way to hear what exactly was being said, but Legolas knew instantaneously that the person doing the talking was none other than Jarvek.

"Do you hear that?" Legolas whispered to the other warriors. They all nodded. "We need to move closer." With that, he moved with amazing agility into the next tree and then the one after that. The other elves followed with just as much ease. Legolas stopped after a few minutes of 'tree-hopping' and strained to hear the conversation, but they were still too far away. "A bit closer…" the other warriors consented, albeit anxiously. The branches creaked softly and Legolas was all too aware of how close they were to the enemy, but it was imperative that he obtain any information possible; it could mean the difference between the obliteration of Mirkwood or its preservation.

And it could mean the difference between the salvation or condemnation of his friends.

"Well, well, well…Just look who it is!"

Legolas spun around in panic.

Jarvek cocked his head to the side and grinned at him, sadistic satisfaction emanating from his entire being. The prince could only stare in pure horror, immobilised.

Jarvek had still been one step ahead of them.

In the end, he had won his little game.

Just like he always had.

Just like he always did.

Just like he always would.

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Evil cliffy of death, doom and destruction.

_Be nice and review. No pressure. _


	3. You Lose

_**The blab's on the first chappy.**_

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Legolas sat on the branch, completely still. He couldn't move. Something small and distant in the back of his mind was telling him to jump, to flee, but he couldn't. It was useless. He could only sit and stare into the malicious eyes of Jarvek; it felt as though time itself had stopped. The only thing that told him differently was the frantic drumming of his heart.

"Nice try, princeling. But _unfortunately_ not good enough," Jarvek stated in a sickly conversational voice. "You weren't expecting this now, were you, boy?" the twisted elf laughed; it grated on Legolas' ears. "But I'm not finished with my surprises yet…" he added softly.

Legolas instinctively turned about as he heard the sound of bowstrings being pulled taut. He almost wished he hadn't.

For the wielders of the weapons were none other than the majority of his own men.

But they weren't pointed at Jarvek.

They were pointed at the remaining members of Legolas' unit.

Legolas felt sick. Jarvek laughed again. "This is fun isn't it?" he remarked, as though he genuinely found it entertaining. The perverse tone disturbed Legolas and he subconsciously shied away from the older elf. This only made him laugh harder. "Are you scared, boy?" his taunt was a hiss as he crouched along the branch towards the cornered prince. Legolas backed up away from the senile being in front of him, but was abruptly stopped by the tree trunk behind him, causing him to take a sharp intake of breath. Jarvek heard it. "I thought you were," he whispered sadistically, still advancing. "And you know what?" he stopped in front of Legolas. Leaning forward, closer to the prince's ear he breathed, "You should be."

Legolas' back was pressed firmly against the tree. He had no where to go. The trapped, vulnerable feeling was almost literally suffocating him, but his discomfort was only adding to Jarvek's warped pleasure.

Legolas looked past his soon-to-be captor and glanced at his terrified unit. Or what remained of it. He was truly shocked at the betrayal; he could never have imagined it. He vaguely wondered if the elf that had turned back before they began their pursuit had been a traitor too. _'Or the two injured ones I sent to inform father…' _he thought to himself, and immediately a great wave of anxiety washed over him. If they were traitors then they most certainly wouldn't have explained what had happened to the king. And if that was the case then Legolas and the other captives were most certainly in trouble. A lot of trouble.

"You know, I really have no need of you lot…" Jarvek stated to the frightened warriors, as indifferent as ever.

The traitors tightened their bow strings.

"No, don't…" whispered Legolas, petrified for the lives of his comrades.

Jarvek looked back at him, his eyes unreadable. Before Legolas had so much time as to blink, Jarvek's powerful hand was wrapped around his throat, dangerously tight. "You are in no position to order me around, _Your Highness_," Jarvek sneered. "I suggest you remember that," he added threateningly, tightening his iron hold. Legolas began to choke slightly, his eyes wide with fear. To his horror, Jarvek only increased the unbearable pressure, revelling in his captive's pain and terror. "How does that feel?..." The demented elf was truly enjoying this, his eyes glinting with malice. Legolas was digging his fingers into Jarvek's forearms in a desperate attempt to loosen the hold but the sadist was notorious for being the most dangerous and invincible elf that had ever walked Middle Earth, and Legolas' attempts to free himself were all but hopeless. Jarvek just sat their smirking, watching Legolas' face whiten as he choked the life out of him. Legolas' head was starting to spin; his airway, completely closed off. His gasping got more frantic as his body began to scream for oxygen, but Jarvek just kept on smirking. The younger elf's vision began to blur as he got close to losing consciousness, and his chest felt as if it would burst into a thousand bits, such was the extent of the excruciating agony, but still Jarvek kept on squeezing. Just as Legolas' body was about to give up on him entirely, Jarvek released his unbreakable grip. The prince gasped in air with a shriek and collapsed back against the hard trunk of the tree. Jarvek grinned down at him. "So, have we learnt our lesson now, elfling?" he patronized. Legolas' face was whiter than snow and he was panting at a disturbingly rapid rate. He was completely incapable of moving or saying anything. "Good boy," Jarvek taunted cruelly, lightly touching Legolas' aching neck in an almost caressing manner. The prince couldn't contain a shudder as the malicious elf ran his fingers over the already forming bruises marring his pale skin, completely powerless to do anything to stop him. The other loyal elves watched in fearful despondence at the treatment of their prince. Still facing Legolas, Jarvek commanded tonelessly, "Kill them."

"No!" Legolas cried out hoarsely; fear lending him the strength he needed to sit up. But the order had been irreversibly given and the inevitable sound of bow strings twanging, the series of sickening thuds and then the cries of agony, resounded throughout the moonlit forest. Legolas could only stare, his mind barely comprehending what had just taken place. Jarvek raised an eyebrow. "Did I not just warn you to hold your tongue, princeling?" he asked coldly. "Or would you like another lesson? Perhaps the first didn't fully sink in..."

Legolas stared into his eyes defiantly. "I thought you said I couldn't give orders; I don't believe you mentioned anything about not being able to speak at all." The reckless words were spat out before Legolas could stop them.

A moment of dead silence followed, and then, "I'm going to enjoy breaking you…" The sinister sincerity in the voice would've made even the bravest cower. Legolas felt the control he currently had over his fear begin to slide out of his grip. Jarvek motioned to one of his kin-slayers. The elf obviously knew his leader well, for he immediately knew what his intentions were and quickly ripped off a strip of clothe from his own shirt and passed it into the awaiting hand. Without a word, Jarvek made a grab for Legolas' head, only for the prince to dodge under it. For the first time in a very long while, Jarvek was actually surprised. It was a well known fact that his reflexes were unmatched; it was one of the main reasons that no-one could kill him. Yet here, an elf who was, in his eyes, just a child, had evaded him. "Remarkable," he stated with cool fascination. Legolas glared at him. He knew it was ultimately futile to try and block Jarvek's attacks, but he was at least going to prolong the time he had left with the freedom of speech. Sure enough, Jarvek was not so confidently arrogant this time and he shot his hand forward as fast as the strike of a snake and coiled it in Legolas' hair quicker than the eye could see. With a forceful jerk, he wrenched the prince's head down and with unnecessary brutality, shoved the gag into the resisting archer's mouth, tying it painfully tight. All this was done in a matter of seconds. Pleased with his achievement, Jarvek readjusted his position on the branch and gave his captive an infuriatingly smug look. Every iota of Legolas' being shed out pure detest towards the malevolent elf in front of him. Jarvek found the prince's reaction highly amusing. "I reckon it's time we moved on, don't you, Legolas?" he mocked with a sadistic laugh and without any warning, grabbed Legolas by the arm and leapt out of the tree and onto the ground. Legolas just about managed to land on both feet, only thanks to his supreme agility. His former comrades jumped nimbly after them, ready to follow. He glanced at the bloodied, twisted bodies of his dead warriors and quickly averted his eyes.

'_That was my fault.'_

'_I killed them.' _

'_I murdered my own men.' _

"Come on." It wasn't a coincidence that Jarvek had used exactly the same order Legolas had before leading six innocent elves to their deaths. Legolas took a deep breath through his nose to steady himself.

Jarvek smirked.

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"Silithion! WILL YOU GET OUT OF BED NOW! _NOW!_" Thranduil all but charged into his son's room and hauled the duvet off the unresponsive body.

"Nnngghhh…"

"_WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE AT COURT IN FIVE MINUTES AND YOU ARE NOT EVEN OUT OF BED!_"

"WHAT?!?" Silithion shot up.

"That certainly got him moving," Thranduil muttered darkly. Sili glared at his father, angry at having being tricked, and laid back down again.

"_Oh no you __don't!_" barked the king, dragging him up again and marching him towards the door. "You are getting out of bed and coming down to eat with the rest of your family for once in your life!"

Raedian closed his eyes and counted to ten. His father and lazy older brother were currently shouting the palace down. Raedian was trying to write a report, which would be reason enough for him to be in an even fouler mood than usual, but mixed with the distraction of screaming family members?...

Standing up so fast that his chair flew backwards and crashed into the wall, Raedian flew out of the door. He was still livid at having been seen running through the palace in his underpants. And all thanks to his little brother; Legolas. The very name itself made him shake with barely contained rage. When the little skank came back from his scouting mission he was _so _in for it.

"Vengeance is mine," muttered Raedian with an evil smirk. But more immediately concerning was the racket upstairs that had still not subsided and so without further ado, he marched down the corridor, causing every servant, guard and Lord in his path to hurriedly jump out of his way. Soon afterwards, Raedian arrived at the doorway where all the noise seemed to emanating from. Fuming, he flung the door open.

"_**HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO WRITE A REPORT WITH ALL THIS SCREAMING??!? YOU'RE NOT EVEN ARGUEING ABOUT ANYTHING VAGUELY RELEVANT!! WHO CARES IF SILITHION DOESN'T GET HIS LAZY, WORTHLESS SELF OUT OF BED – NO-ONE GIVES A CRAP EITHER WAY!!! HE'S A WASTE OF SPACE!!!! YOU'RE ALL SO HOPELESS!! WHY DID I EVER HAVE TO BE BORN INTO SUCH A DUMB FAMILY???!!!! YOU'RE IDIOTS THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU!!!! **__**SPASTIC IDIOTS!!!!!!"**___

And so that was how Prince Raedian of Mirkwood resolved the matter, although the language he actually used was considerably coarser than what you have just read. Thranduil watched rather impassively as Raedian stormed out of the room, causing even more people to flee than when he had stormed into the room.

This was a daily occurrence, and the king had long since given up on trying to keep his son in place.

It was utterly exerting and completely futile.

Silithion, however, was not best pleased at having his younger brother call him a 'spastic idiot'. He scowled after the long black hair as it flicked out of the doorway.

Making a considerable amount of noise for an elf, Raedian strode with all speed back down the corridor and into his quarters. Picking up his quill, taking a deep, pacifying breath and settling himself back down comfortably, he proceeded to finish his report, his anger successfully abated. Well, as successfully as Prince Raedian's anger could ever have been abated. Which, in all honesty, really wasn't very successful at all.

Huirlith wandered into Isilihir's bedroom, a look of customary detachment on his features. "When's Legolas coming back?"

"I don't know; whenever they've killed the spiders, I guess," said Isilihir, pouring himself a glass of water.

"Hmmm, maybe it's best that he hides himself when he does arrive home…" stated Huirlith, as though contemplating the idea.

"What's that?" asked his elder brother after taking a sip of water.

"Vengeance is mine," said Huirlith dreamily.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," said the prince happily, ambling out again, softly humming to himself.

Isilihir watched with a perplexed expression, trying for all his worth to decipher what on earth his brother was talking about, or why he had bothered to come in in the first place, but finally he consented to defeat. The crown prince of Mirkwood went back to drinking his water with a mental sigh and a weary shake of his head.

Still, he hoped that Legolas was alright. He had been having a few doubts about his safety, but he put it down to being an over-protective big brother. Legolas would be fine. He could look after himself.

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	4. Revelations and the Riddle

_**The blabs on the first chappy. **_

_**Jamie Erin: This one's about a month or so after the first story, so there's not any real time or age difference.**_

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Jarvek hauled Legolas away from his fallen comrades and further into the forest. "You know princeling, there never actually were any spider sightings last week," said Jarvek mildly. Legolas glanced at him, wondering what sort of guile the twisted elf's mind was creating. "I initiated the whole thing," he stated as though he were a young child who had just won a game of hide-and-seek. Legolas would've responded with a harsh 'What?' to these comments, but much to his irritation he had just been rather violently gagged, and so he consented with simply glaring at his tormenter. Jarvek elaborated, "Have you ever found any spies in your kingdom?" His eyes portrayed a strange emotion: something between humour and gloat. Perhaps perverse wry would've been the best way to describe it. Of course, Legolas had no means of answering so he simply glared on. "Well, maybe if I told you that there are more than just these six men who are traitors to Mirkwood you would be more willing to listen?" Legolas was certainly more willing to listen after that. Still holding the prince's arm in a secure grip, he continued, "I have many spies posted throughout this forest and as spies, they are very efficient at informing me on many different things." He stopped and spun Legolas around, pushing him against a tree. "You see, all the traitors are my spies and all my spies, traitors," he continued indifferently, pulling a length of rope from his boot. "So I had a few of them spin a little lie about 'spider spotting'," he drawled on, pulling Legolas' hands behind him, his knee against the Prince's back, disabling him from getting away. "It worked very well in getting you where I wanted," he remarked, tying the rope around Legolas' wrists ridiculously tight. Legolas winced. "I've been having them spy on you too," Jarvek stated softly. "Everywhere you go…They've been in all your war parties, all your guards; they're even swarming around the palace as we speak," he murmured into Legolas' ear. "I've learnt a lot about you from them. Especially a lot about your logic. It came in useful didn't it? I was able to predict what you would think; what you would do. They told me about how you're exceptionally good at thinking in the mind of your enemy. I suppose you thought that I would've expected you to try and cut me off at the river? Yes, I was right," he confirmed by the look on Legolas' face. "That's a very good trait for a warrior to have. But sadly, it doesn't really work on me. You were assuming that I am conceited and would view you as a mere insolent child. I am not conceited and I most certainly do not view you as an insolent child. Unfortunately, you're rather clever which means that I have to show a certain measure of 'respect' for you." Jarvek was speaking as though Legolas wasn't anywhere in the vicinity to hear him. "And did you never stop to think that there may be a bridge over that river?" Legolas blanched. "Or what if we did have horses? It's never alright to just assume Legolas…" he reprimanded. "Although, that being said, I admire the fact that you didn't go back to the palace. At least you judged my unpredictable nature correctly," he said with a sly grin. "However futile it may have been, at least you done the most potentially beneficial thing you could," he talked on, dragging Legolas back away from the tree and pulling him onwards.

Legolas was really quite shocked at just how well Jarvek had anticipated his every move. It was like he had been eavesdropping on him the whole time. Legolas remembered hearing stories on Jarvek about how he just had to meet eyes with somebody for a split second and he would have their entire character judged perfectly. It was unnerving. But more pressing to Legolas' mind was the question of how Jarvek had managed to be talking miles away from him one minute, and then be beside him in the next.

"You appear to be wondering about the enigma of being in two places at once…" Jarvek stated knowingly, that same psychic ability showing through again. "My cousin is a good actor, don't you think?" The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile at the look of surprise on Legolas' face. "He climbed through the trees to meet myself and the Nazgul just a mile or so ahead of where I captured you, and then he took over my tracks, as it were, enabling me to wait in hiding. It was actually quite a challenge for him to jump down on exactly the right part of ground, in exactly the right position. It had to appear from the tracks that I had gone the whole way there, rather than done a swap with someone else."

Legolas looked at him. _'Gone the whole way where?' _

"The whole way to my watchtower," said Jarvek in answer to Legolas' unspoken question.

'_His watchtower?...' _

-_Flashback- _

"_Sili, why could nobody break through the door?" Legolas asked of his older brother. _

"_Because only the person who owns it can open the door," his brother said. _

"_But they weren't opening it; they were breaking it!" _

_Silithion sighed. "Alright squirt, put it this way: Nobody can get inside unless the person who owns it opens the door for them," he explained patiently, putting it in the most simplistic way he could. _

"_Who does own it, Sili?" the child asked innocently. _

"_Well, it used to belong to Sauron when he lived in Mirkwood, but when he went to Mordor he had no-one to look after it, so he gave it to Jarvek." _

"_So, Jarvek owns the keys to it then?" _

_Silithion laughed at his brother's childish explanation. "Yes, I guess he does own the keys to it." _

_-End flashback- _

But that made no sense. If Jarvek had turned back like he said he had, then who would've opened the watchtower to let them in? It was quite possible that it had been Jarvek's cousin whom Legolas heard. After all, he had only ever heard Jarvek's voice once before then, and that had been when he was a very young child. But that still didn't explain how the door was opened...

Legolas walked along in captivity, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. It made no sense. There was no possible way that the door could've been opened unless it was by Jarvek. Or unless Jarvek had been lying and the captives weren't actually being held in the watchtower. But Legolas felt sure they were, for with each step, he could distinguish more and more voices; more and more sounds. Orc voices, elven voices, the clank of armour, the sound of many feet pounding against hard stone floors. He could definitely hear a great number of orcs and elves, both races shouting orders as though they were in league. The only scenario that Legolas knew of where orcs and elves would willingly work together was when they were under the command of Jarvek… No, Jarvek was definitely holding the captives in his tower, there was no doubt about that. _'But that means he must have gone all the way to the watchtower,' _thought Legolas, perplexed. One of the elves in his unit (a faithful one, he recalled with much guilt) had claimed that Jarvek had only been one hour ahead of them at the most. This elf was well known for his tracking abilities, and Legolas didn't doubt his statement for a minute. By Legolas' reckoning, at the point where he had been ambushed they were about two miles away from the voice and subsequently two miles from the watchtower. It was plausible to say that you could travel two miles in one hour. If this was the case though, then Jarvek would have been chanting the spell to open the watchtower at around the time Legolas and his company first heard the voices. But there was no possible way that Jarvek could've came back, ready to intercept Legolas inside a matter of minutes. No, the only possible answer that Legolas could manage to come up with was that Jarvek had horses waiting on route, further along from where he had been captured. This would mean that they had ridden hard to the tower which Jarvek would've then opened, before riding back the way he came until he was close to the ambush site. He must have then dismounted and taken to the trees, ready to catch the unfortunate warriors unawares. _'His cousin must have began shouting a while after he had actually entered the tower,' _thought Legolas, able to come to no other conclusion.

Legolas decided that the only way his theory could be backed up was if he saw any horse tracks. But so far, they must have come at least a mile, and still there was no sign that Jarvek or anyone else had used a mount. But Legolas let it pass from his mind. He was more concerned about the well-being of his friends and the general; were they even still alive? He quickly pushed that heinous thought out of his head, refusing to believe that the answer was anything other than in the positive. His worries over his friends soon morphed into anxiety for himself. Was he going to be alright? What would Jarvek do to him? Would he kill him straight away? Legolas seriously doubted that the sadist would do such a 'merciful' thing.

Would he torture him?

As much as Legolas hoped with all his heart that torture was not Jarvek's intention, deep down he knew that he could hope all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the inevitable answer.

Presently, Jarvek broke the silence. "The forest looks a lot more pleasant in this part, I must say," he said, gesturing to the now darker and more foreboding landscape, indicating just how close they were to Dol Guldur. Legolas refused to be goaded, fixing his eyes on the ground in front of him. "We'll soon be at our destination," he continued. If Legolas' indifference had irked him, he was doing a good job of hiding it. "And then you'll be reunited with your precious little friends," he mocked in a soppy voice. Legolas continued to stare holes into the forest floor. "Although they probably won't remember much about their capture…" Jarvek remarked distantly. Legolas' eyes left the ground and instead, found Jarvek. "Wait and see," was the older elf's unhelpful answer.

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"Where in the name of the Valar is Legolas' party?" asked an irate Thranduil, as the last of the scouting groups he had sent out to hunt the spiders returned.

"Knowing him he's probably too busy messing around to even realise that he's supposed to be reporting back today," replied Isilihir wearily.

"Hmmph," came the grunted retort.

It was now into the third day since the search had commenced; the day in which all the participating units were supposed to come back (unless of course they had found their quarry), but Thranduil was adamant that his youngest son hadn't done so, as none of the other parties had came across any indication that there had even been any spiders to begin with. With a sigh, the king of Mirkwood strode back into the palace, ready to hear the warrior's reports in detail.

"No, My Lord, no other party has came across Prince Legolas' since the departure," one elf was busy saying. Thranduil was at loss for what to do. Legolas should have long been back by now; surely he would've realised that the spiders had long since disappeared? And if not Legolas, then surely General Tyrilden would have had the sense to understand that the search was becoming futile? But apparently they had not, or they were simply taking a long time in coming back. _'Perhaps this is another one of Legolas' schemes to get at me,' _he thought sullenly. _'Or perhaps something has befallen them.' _The thought entered Thranduil's mind unbidden and he hurriedly dismissed it as parental anxiety, telling himself that if his son wasn't, then Tyrilden would certainly be wise enough to lead them away from any imminent threat of orcs. But still, Thranduil was not having his child gallivanting around in the middle of Mirkwood; although his unit was quite large for a search party, it was still only twenty-five or so men, and there were a lot of dangers in the great forest of Mirkwood that twenty-five men could easily wander into.

"My Lord, perhaps you should issue out a search for your son," one of his advisors ventured.

Thranduil pondered over the idea for a minute before coming to a decision. "No, it would be best to wait another day or so to see if he returns and if not, then send out a search. Besides, Legolas will only have a childish tantrum if he finds out that I ordered for him to be tracked down," Thranduil said bitterly. The advisors bit their tongues to keep from laughing.

"But really My Lord, what if he is in trouble? Would it not be sensible to take precautions now rather than suffer regret later if, Valar forbid, something had happened to the Prince?" said another advisor.

"Yes, My Liege; one can never be too careful," said a third.

They had a point and Thranduil knew so. "Very well. Send out a search," he consented.

There was an echoing chorus of "Aye, My Lord," as everyone set about doing their King's will.

"And if that boy doesn't turn up by tomorrow…" Thranduil growled under his breath, before stalking out of the Hall.

…There would certainly be a lot to pay.

A lot more than Thranduil could ever have realised.

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Review if you please.


	5. The Signpost

_**The blabs on the first chappy. **_

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The great looming structure rose high above the ground, it's very presence emanating power and unrivalled might. The grey marble reflected the blood red beauty of the rising sun, matching that of the most expensive and valuable ruby. The flawlessly intricate gargoyles almost seemed to glare down at Legolas, sensing that he was not welcome inside the glorious tower that they guarded, ever vigilant. The design was like nothing Legolas had ever witnessed before. You could not deny that it was a truly marvellous sight, although perhaps the intentions that it had been erected for were not so marvellous.

Jarvek led his prisoner towards the grand gates that barred the entrance to his watchtower. Pulling Legolas towards it, he began to recite the incantation that would open the strong and elaborate doors. Legolas glanced behind him; he didn't know if he'd ever get to see the simple splendour of the dawn ever again. He made to turn back towards the gloomy tower when he noticed something that startled him. Behind him, were his own tracks imprinted onto the earth. That in itself was nothing strange. But where Jarvek's footprints should have been, there was nothing, not even the slightest mark. He had no time to dwell on the matter though, for the great doors had begun to pull back with a resonating creak, admitting them entry. Jarvek dragged Legolas inside and down through a wide hallway. "I helped design this," Jarvek stated, clearly proud of his work. It explained the bizarre elvish fling that was present throughout the décor, although it was conspicuous that Sauron had placed his mark on the creation as well. The tower, both inside and out, appeared to be entirely made out of marble. Columns rose on both sides of the hallway and there were numerous candles along the way, casting an eerie light over the dim atmosphere. Subconsciously, Legolas began to resist the hand leading him down the elegant yet dreary atrium and Jarvek snaked an arm around his chest to force him onwards. The hall itself was empty besides them and the six traitors who had accompanied the captive and the captor the whole way since the ambush. The perpetual silence of the place made Legolas acutely aware of his pounding heart. He distractedly noticed his former comrades diverting their courses and going down several different corridors that ran adjacent to the one he was currently being led down. Just as he was vaguely wondering how long the endless columns and candles went on for, Jarvek swiftly turned down another corridor to his right. This one, Legolas noticed much to his discomfort, was even darker than the previous and far more claustrophobic. Jarvek continued to drag the younger elf towards his destination. "You do realise, boy, that the only reason I had in capturing your little friends was to lure you here, don't you?" Legolas felt his panic being reborn. "What I'm trying to say is I don't actually have any use for them…" he said coolly. Legolas looked at him with pleading eyes, devoid of his tongue as he was. Jarvek didn't meet the imploring look. "Oh, you have nothing to say against that? Well that's a pity; I guess you really don't care about them then," he taunted cruelly. Legolas made a desperate sound of protest, starting to struggle against the crazed elf. "That's too bad, I guess. I'll just have to explain to them how you betrayed them to their deaths," he continued unconcernedly. Legolas tried to beg him not to, to yell abuse at him, but he couldn't; the gag prevented him from saying anything. Jarvek laughed; a twisted, warped laugh that echoed through the corridor with a spooky reverberation, like there was a ghost present in the cold, sinister passage. He twisted his hand in Legolas' hair to stop the prince struggling against his hold. "Come now, _Your Highness_: did your father never teach you that a prince must sacrifice others? After all," Jarvek gave Legolas' hair a brutal tug so that he was forced to lean his head back against the sadist's shoulder. "You are _so much_ more important than they." He released Legolas' hair and shoved him on up the walkway. "There's no point in struggling, Legolas. You're not going to get anywhere," he whispered into his captive's ear.

They had come to the end of the passageway to Legolas' relief and were now mounting a set of stairs. "I'll kill your pathetic friends if I want to, Prince; they mean nothing to me!" snarled Jarvek pushing Legolas up the winding staircase and into another corridor. Dread and fear clawed at Legolas' insides as he thought about all the hideous things Jarvek could do to Lethiwen and Birien. Would they believe Jarvek if he told them that it was he, Legolas' fault that they were to die? What of the General? Would he be deceived as well?...

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King Thranduil of Mirkwood paced his study for the 99th time. His youngest child had still not returned from his scouting mission; he was due to be back yesterday and with the growing threat from Dol Guldur, it was no small thing when a party was over a day late. Legolas' unit may just have gone further than they realised and were taking their time in coming back to give the horses a reprieve. It was possible, but Thranduil wondered if that was the case, why then did General Tyrilden not stop them from going too far; surely he would've realised that they had gone well out of the safety of the realm? But then again, that may not have been the case. Whatever it was, Thranduil sincerely hoped that Legolas was alright, and that it had just been that they lost track of time. Legolas was very susceptible to things like that. He never really thought about the consequences his actions would have on others. He had never seemed that fussed about the worry he caused his family; it wasn't that he didn't love them, it was just that he was sometimes to proud to show it. Thranduil sighed. Yet again, Legolas was causing his father grief and anxiety. Even if he did turn up he would only lay into Thranduil over the fact that he had sent people out in search of him. _'He'll be in a strop till next month,' _thought the king with a slight smile. But the fact remained that Legolas wasn't necessarily in a position _to_ return; he may actually be in trouble. At this thought, Thranduil resumed his pacing again. He would never forgive himself if something had happened to Legolas. After all, it had been him who had sent Legolas out on the accursed mission, and in the end, it would be his fault if his son were to get hurt. _'Or,' _Thranduil thought with much dismay, _'If he were to get killed…' _

Huirlith sat in the library pouring over a history book. He could've stayed there for days on end, oblivious of his surroundings and of reality, blissfully engrossed in reading. As it was though, on this day the world didn't permit him to be peacefully unaware of reality, and it was just as he was getting to the climax of the notorious kin-slaying of the Teleri, Erenial ran through the door. "Did you hear about Leg'las, Uncle Lithy?" he chirped happily, jumping rather vigorously onto Huirlith's lap.

"Hello, Erenial. No, I didn't hear about Legolas; what's happened to him?" he replied cheerily.

"I heard Granddad saying that he hasn't come back from his assi-ment yet," came the reply.

"As_sign_ment," corrected Huirlith. "When did Granddad say that, Eren?" he asked, mindful to hide his concern from the child.

"Just a few hours ago. He sounded angry," Erenial added in a fearful whisper.

"Oh dear," said Huirlith.

"Do you know where my daddy is? I haven't seen him in ages!" Eren asked, apparently losing interest in the subject of Legolas' mysterious disappearance.

"He's right here," came a voice from across the room.

"DADDDDYYYYY!!!" cried Erenial excitedly, flying across the library into Isilihir's open arms.

"I missed you, daddy," he stated with a pout.

"I missed you too. I get very lonely when I don't see you," said Isilihir, picking his young son up into his arms.

"Guess what I saw, Ada."

"What did you see?"

"Uncle Rae saying rude words to Master Fortarthin. I don't think Master Fortarthin liked them very much, though."

"No, I'm sure he didn't…" said Isilihir, raising his eyebrows and walking out of the room, still carrying Erenial.

Huirlith however, was already back inside the First Age, vividly imagining every single victory and defeat being described.

He was a strange case, really.

"Thranduil, you need to sit down…" Fortarthin was becoming seriously worried for his King; he had been pacing up and down incessantly for hours now.

"How can I, Fortarthin?! My son could be _dead!_" Thranduil hissed back at his friend.

"Don't say that! You don't have any proof whatsoever that he's even in trouble!"

"Proof? PROOF?! HE IS NEARLY TWO DAYS LATE BACK FROM A PATROL AND YOU ARE TELLING ME THAT THERE IS NO PROOF THAT HE HAS WANDERED STRAIGHT INTO A BUNCH OF ORCS AND BEEN…BEEN…" Thranduil collapsed into a chair. "Been killed," he finished in a dejected whisper.

Fortarthin looked down at him sympathetically. "Let us wait for dawn and then draw up our conclusions."

Thranduil said nothing. He just stared at the dying embers in the hearth, a distant look upon his face. "What if something worse has got him, Fortarthin? Like, like… the Nazgul…" he shivered slightly; it wasn't from the cold.

"Your son may be good at drawing trouble to himself, but he's got enough brains to balance the equation out. He'll be okay. He can fend for himself."

"I hope you're right. It's just that this whole thing is _unnerving._ Where did the spiders go Fortarthin, _where? _I'll they'll you: they didn't go anywhere for there were none there to begin with!" said Thranduil forcefully.

Fortarthin looked at the stone floor. "What about the sentries who claimed they saw them? Are you implying that they are liars?"

"No," groaned Thranduil. "I don't know! Okay?!? _I don't know!_ It's just strange, maybe I'm being paranoid, but there's something going on!…" He closed his eyes and thumped his head back against his chair.

Fortarthin reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not being paranoid, mellon-nin, you're just thinking in the mindset of a King," he said softly.

"For everyone's sake, I hope you're right."

Fortarthin rose out of his seat and made for the door. "Don't we all," he stated with a rueful smile. With that he left the King to brood by himself, passing a troubled looking Kethiron on the way down the corridor.

'_Don't we all.' _

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Legolas tested the chains; they were more than adequate for their job. He sighed. Jarvek had dragged him to one of the many cells in the despicable tower, much to Legolas' physical protests. It hadn't, however, done him much good as he has still been hauled into the damp, decrepit prison and chained to the wall, something, (Legolas recalled with great repulsion) that Jarvek had enjoyed doing immensely, and then left Legolas alone in the horrible room for the rest of the day. Not that Legolas could've actually told if it was day or night; the cell stayed the same colour – pitch black. It seemed that Jarvek revelled in people's helplessness and enjoyed taking advantage over their vulnerability whenever he could. Still, at least the gag had been removed and Legolas was now able to use his mouth again, although the reason for the small act of mercy was not to let him speak, but rather to allow him to drink. Legolas was actually quite surprised that Jarvek had even left him any water; it seemed very out-of-character for such a cruel being. Although, when Legolas thought over it, he supposed the only reason he was getting anything to drink was so he would be strong enough to endure whatever gruesome torture Jarvek had in store for him when they got to Dol Guldur. Legolas shuddered. He had found out from Jarvek's incessant taunts that Dol Guldur was where they were headed for and he couldn't help but fear what evil lay in waiting for him there. It would be a long journey – 200 miles, or there about. Legolas figured they would probably have horses but even then it could be three days, or maybe even four. _'Or possibly two if they push the horses to their limit,' _Legolas thought bitterly, deciding that it was quite probable they would. And so the night ploughed on, and slowly the light of the next day crept up and over the tall trees of Mirkwood; Legolas hadn't slept, for the fear that Jarvek had acted on his threat and actually killed his friends in the night was plaguing him, tormenting him, He tossed about and pulled at his bonds in frustration, but all he acquired was bloodied wrists. He beseeched the Valar to save them, he cursed the Valar for ever letting them become involved in this mess. The emotional pain was relentless, tearing his insides up, ripping his mind to shreds.

But all he could do was wait for the morning and see whether they were alive…

…Or whether they were dead.

"Sleep well?" Jarvek jeered, casting the prison door open and gliding in to roughly unfasten the chains holding the younger elf immobile. The sudden invasion of light to his senses caused Legolas to wince and turn his head in the opposite direction. Grabbing Legolas by the arm and yanking him to his feet, Jarvek said lightly, "We're heading for Dol Guldur now, so enjoy the comforts while they last."

The fact that Jarvek had called the dingy cell a 'comfort' was all Legolas needed to tell him just what a horrific time awaited him when he arrived at the Nazgul's stronghold. He flinched involuntarily and Jarvek noticed it. "Yes, _'comforts'_ boy, comforts!" he purred.

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The only thing Legolas was aware of through the initial part of the journey was the great elation at seeing all three of his comrades alive and well. Words couldn't explain his relief, and it masked over all his other less desirable emotions. It didn't matter what Jarvek did to him. He could take that; he could survive that.

But he would never survive if Jarvek took his friends away.

And it would be his fault for falling into the trap, like a naïve rabbit getting ambushed by the sly fox.

They rode for miles, the captive's hands tied onto the saddles of their horses, and the horses in turn led by the captors. It went on this way for quite some time, (Legolas' presumption about riding the horses hard being correct). There were several stops made along the way to give their mounts a much needed break, and it was during one of these rests on the second day of travelling that Legolas was able to communicate with a familiar face.

"Biri! Are you alright? Has he done anything to you? Are you hurt?!" Legolas whispered his frantic questions to the elf whose hands were tied to the same stake as his.

"No, I'm good, I'm okay. What about you?" The elf replied taking a good look at Legolas through worried eyes.

"I'm fine too…Birien, I'm sorry for getting you and Lethy into this mess. I really am. This is all my fault…"

"What?! No! Don't be stupid Legolas! You didn't know this would happen; even Tyrilden didn't have a clue! And he's supposed to be the 'ever vigilant' genius of a general!"

Legolas couldn't help but smile at his friend's humour.

"What a farce…"

"Stop it Biri! You're going to make me laugh!"

"Oww! There's something sticking up my butt – this ruddy forest terrain!"

"Biri! Stop please, Jarvek's going to come over!" Legolas' face lit up with mirth as Birien squirmed around like someone had stuck ants into his underpants.

"I'm going to look like a perv rubbing my behind against the floor trying to get some forsaken stick out of it! Valar!"

Legolas was silently laughing into his knees at Birien's desperate attempts to get rid of the annoying stick.

"You need to see your face! It's comical!" Legolas just about managed to whisper.

"Finally!! Blessed relief…" he glared at the offending stick as though it had committed a serious criminal offence before flicking it away with a contented smirk. "What's going to happen to us, Legolas?" he said on a much more morbid note.

Legolas' laughter quickly abated. "I don't know."

"Are you scared? I am," Birien stated blatantly. He had never been the bravest of all people, but Legolas reckoned that nobody could truthfully say they wouldn't be scared in the situation that the two friends found themselves in.

"Yeah. Yeah I am Birien," Legolas replied earnestly, looking him straight in the eye. It took a lot for Legolas to admit to someone, even a best friend, that he was scared.

Birien smiled sadly. "I'm glad I'm not alone for once."

They sat like that for many a minute, simply taking heart from the others presence, their friendship acting as the anchor for the ship in the raging tempest.

"Birien, was Jarvek's cousin involved in your capture?" Legolas broke the silence, intending to put his theories into some sort of order.

"What? No…"

Legolas stared at him.

"Well, see, I don't actually remember anything after the battle. It's like a great big blank space in my memory," he continued, his face screwed up in confusion. "Legolas, I think I was drugged," he stated, looking up into his friends concerned eyes.

"Oh…" said Legolas, at loss for what to say. "I'm guessing Lethiwen and Tyrilden have been drugged too."

"Probably. Where _is _Lethiwen come to think of it?" Birien perked his head up and glanced around the clearing.

"He's there, by the horses."

"Oh, good. Legolas?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm hungry…"

"You would be."

"True. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm hungry."

"Well, what can I do about it?"

"I don't know! I just felt like telling you!"

"Freak."

"Proud of it."

Silence followed. Their light-hearted jests couldn't penetrate the fear forever.

"It's so sinister and foreboding, Legolas. Like the air itself is an agent of the enemy," Birien murmured, referring to the atmosphere.

"We're three miles from Dol Guldur. The air here _is_ an agent of the enemy." Legolas stared out into the gloom, tendrils of unease visible on his features.

"How do you know?..."

"There was a 'signpost' of all things, just back a few minutes ago. 'Three Miles to Dol Guldur.' I think it was made at the time when our realm extended all the way down to here. It was probably a warning for wary travellers…" he explained quietly.

"That's really unnerving in a way…"

"It is, isn't it? Nowadays we have signposts saying 300 miles to Dol Guldur…"

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Review. It's an order. :)


	6. I Hate You, You Hate Me

_**The blab's on the first chappy. **_

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The Nazgul shrieked and hissed as the turbulent water splashed around them, their mounts becoming frisky and spooked by the uncharacteristic anxiety of their masters. Jarvek rode onwards through the murk, regardless of the Nazgul's predicament. They would follow. Give them time.

Legolas watched as the Ringwraiths shied away from the tumultuous river, just as he had predicted they would, before he foolishly got himself involved in the dangerous chess game that Jarvek seemed so intent on playing.

He only hoped that his father was the better strategist.

Looking back again, Legolas noticed that the Nazgul had managed to overcome their phobia and had suffered going across the small stream to continue on their way. He felt his fear intensify further; they had just gone over the very last and final border between no-man's land and Sauron's northernmost stronghold.

They were now officially into the grounds of Dol Guldur.

Their living hell was about to begin, and as Jarvek led them onwards, the sadist vowed that it would most certainly be a living hell that he would bestow upon Mirkwood's youngest prince.

It would be beyond a living hell.

General Tyrilden rested his head against the stone wall behind him. He was still having difficulty comprehending just what had taken place during the course of the last three days. It was unbelievable.

They had been simply travelling through the forest, searching for a large group of spiders that had been seen dangerously close to the realm. It was unusual for spiders to go so far into elven territory, which was, ultimately, why King Thranduil had ordered out three war parties to go and track them and see just what scheme had brought them into the very vision of the border guards.

Nobody in his party had seen or heard anything behind them, but yet, behind them things had been. It was primarily this that was frustrating Tyrilden: _Why did no-one hear or sense Jarvek and the Nazgul? _So far, for all his expertise and experience, the general had not been able to come up with an adequate answer to the maddening enigma.

Closing his eyes, he tried to block it all from his mind, but yet another question that needed answering wandered into his already perplexed conscience. He recalled being taken captive by Jarvek, and vaguely remembered yelling at the mad elf to leave the other two novices who were taken with him alone. His enraged protests hadn't made a difference though, and he couldn't help but feel remorseful at having not been able to do anything to save the young warriors from the same fate as himself. But the strange and irking thing was that he couldn't remember anything past that. It was just a massive void in his memory. The next thing he could remember was waking up in a cell in the watchtower, similar to the circumstance he found himself in now. With a sigh, he realised that he must have been drugged; there was no other plausible explanation for the strangely blank period of time.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, and pondering over such petty things when he was being held captive by the most infamous elf of all time was really quite ludicrous. The only thing he should've been worrying about was his own future, and whether or not he actually had one.

_Or how about Legolas' future? _

Tyrilden had always been fond of Legolas, ever since he was born. He could be brash and maybe a bit wayward at times, but underneath it all there was somebody of great chivalry and courage.

Or perhaps recklessness was the better way of putting it. It was certainly recklessness that had gotten Legolas into this situation in the first place. If only he had have gone back to his father,_ if only he hadn't have came after Jarvek. _

But he had came after him.

And Tyrilden knew that decision was now going to cost Legolas his life. It was such a tragic mistake, such a hideous turn of events. The general thumped his head against the cold wall. He should never have allowed Legolas to come along with them. After all, the boy had only just been discharged from the infirmary, and it was folly to have let him go out on a commission so soon afterwards. His father had been against it. But Legolas had insisted, and the healers had given him their permission to go.

'_But I was the one who gave him a group to go with.' _

Tyrilden vividly recalled telling the young prince that if he wished, he could join the party he was leading, reassuring the king that all would be well.

But all wasn't well.

"So, General, I hope the accommodations are to your liking," drawled Jarvek, floating into the cell he had just unlocked.

Tyrilden looked up at him. "Sublime," came the dramatically sardonic reply. Jarvek just gave a humourless laugh and moved closer towards him.

"It's a great pity concerning your men," he stated bluntly, his tone quite the opposite of lamentation or benignity.

Tyrilden's composure snapped. "_What-did-you-do?!?_"

"Killed them," Jarvek answered unconcernedly. "Well, most of them. Tell me: have you ever came across a traitor, General?" He let out another raucous laugh at the look of pure shock on the warrior's face. "Let me explain," he continued, as though giving a battle report. Perhaps he was mocking the fact that giving reports would usually have been Tyrilden's job.

"Mirkwood is swarming with traitors, to put it simply, Tyrilden. They're everywhere," whispered Jarvek, a malicious spark lighting up in his eyes. "You see, I have a plan, General; a very grand plan that you really don't need to know about. This plan happened to involve a certain Prince Legolas, and it also happened to involve capturing that certain Prince Legolas. But you see, to do that, I needed the right circumstances, I needed…" Here he paused, as though trying to find the right words to describe his perverted plotting. "I needed… _information. _My spies cleverly obtained the necessary knowledge and I soon became aware of an oncoming hunting mission. So I and the Nazgul waited." He smirked at the irate general before continuing. "I made sure that there were a fair number of traitors in your unit, of course." Jarvek went on to specifically name each one; many of the names mentioned were received with great shock and disgust by Tyrilden.

"We organized a rendezvous…" Jarvek purred, once he had finished reeling off his repulsive list.

"Rendezvous?! For what?" Spat Tyrilden furiously.

"Well, to start following you from, of course. They rather _inconspicuously _led the rest of the unit towards me." He chuckled at his own mirth. "As soon as they got close enough, one suggested that you slow down," he hissed on. "And thus, I and the Nazgul were able to follow you on foot, even though our prey were riding…"

Tyrilden felt his ire rise at hearing his men be called 'prey.'He stared deep into the sadist's eyes, his own portraying the pure contempt that he held for the creature in front of him. Jarvek stared back through a narrowed gaze, a warped smile playing on his lips.

If Tyrilden had not been in chains, he would have surely gone for the throat of the foe looming over him, regardless of the fact that he was unarmed.

"We were close behind you…So close…" Jarvek taunted. "Just several minutes away…Ten, perhaps, nay _five_, General…" It was as though he was cruelly reminding Tyrilden of how he had failed to protect his warriors, how his inattention, his _naivety _had cost the lives of so many innocent elves, how their wives and children would _mourn _and_ keen _over their lost ones… _How the_ _heart-wrenching wails of a mother losing her only child would rent the sombre gloom, and how Mirkwood would lose it's youngest prince and his blood would forever be on Tyrilden's hands; he would be a __murderer__, he would cause the downfall of a whole kingdom... __**'Traitor!'**_ _the world would cry_ _and he would never be able to deny it… __**'Traitor!'**__ It was the unadulterated truth… __**'TRAITOR!'**__ …he could hear them jeer… __**'TRAITOR!!'**_…

"_**TRAITOR!!!"**_

"_Traitor_," whispered Jarvek into his captive's ear. With a gasp, the General's eyes sprang open and brought him back to reality. Jarvek was sneering down into his face. Tyrilden's breathing was rapid, matching the pounding of his heart, and the sweat was running down his forehead in rivulets.

Jarvek leaned forward and breathed, "That was power, Sinda. That was power."

With that, the sadist turned on his heels and glided out of the cell, relocking the door.

'_That was power.' _

Tyrilden slid further down the wall and let his head fall back.

_**That was power. **_

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"Your Majesty, we regret to inform you that we are yet to hear word from Prince Legolas," put forward a court messenger to his king, in quite a diplomatic manner. He could, of course, have said: 'Your Majesty, we regret to inform you that Prince Legolas has not yet returned', or 'Your Majesty, we regret to inform you that we are yet to hear word _of _Prince Legolas'. But Thranduil knew exactly what crafty trick the elf was playing; he had spent thousands of years in the company of advisors, amidst their subtle yet consummate manipulation; spent thousands of years watching lawyers as they carefully worded their accounts to become a maze of ambiguity; _spent thousands of years playing the helpless king on the deadly chess board of politics. _No, he knew exactly what that cunning messenger was really trying to say: _His youngest child was in grave danger. _

Thranduil could no longer suffer to be amongst the pompous, deceitful swine that made up his court; he had to get away from all the formality; it was suffocating him. Startling the rest of the hall, Thranduil stood up and strode to the end of the room, hauled open the great oaken doors, and left without even adjourning the court. Already, he could hear the volley of inevitable murmurs seeping out into the corridor.

'_Let them gossip like mindless children; it is all they are good for!' _Thranduil thought spitefully. He would regret his impulsive actions later, but right now the only thing he could think of was Legolas. What had gone wrong? Was he in trouble? Was he injured? Was he…

…Dead?

The king all but ran into his quarters, oblivious of the servant's curious stares. _Legolas could not be dead! Could he…? _

'_NO!' _ It wasn't possible! It couldn't be possible…

Raedian meandered down another corridor, having no idea as to where his feet were leading him. He was greatly worried for Legolas, and being such a proud and stubborn person, the only way he could ease his anxiety was to keep moving, whether it was to pace, run or climb up the palace roof - (he had done such a thing before), it didn't matter. So long as his feet were in motion, his mind was able to organize it's anarchical thoughts. Unbeknownst to him, this was a trait he had inherited from his father.

Turning round yet another corner, Raedian's pacifying wanderings were brought to an abrupt end.

"Ow! Raedian!" yelped Isilihir, as he banged straight into his younger brother.

"Arghh! WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, CAN'T YOU?!" yelled Raedian angrily. Neither brother had heard the other presence as they turned the corner and had both consequently barged into each other.

Isilihir glared at his sibling, before stepping backwards and retorting curtly, "I'm not going to start an argument with you over such a petty matter." He had sensed his brother's aggressive demeanour in the tense atmosphere of the hall.

"Whatever you say, Izzy," sneered Raedian, also stepping back.

"_What is wrong with you?!?" _Isilihir's patience had run dry. He had had enough snide remarks from his irksome little brother – it was every single day of his life, and there was only so much he could take.

"What's wrong with me?! I'll tell you what's wrong with me: I've got people like _you_ breathing down my neck everywhere I go!!" shouted Rae in answer.

"Oh! So that's how you see me is it: A waste of space and just another unnecessary part of your high and mighty life? Well, let me tell you something, _brother!_" he spat, advancing on Raedian, an out-of-place look of contempt on his features. "You're not God, you conceited little git, so stop acting like it!" The crown prince of Mirkwood was becoming strangely worked-up and foul tempered. He was usually quite a considerate and placid being, but something, (or someone) had pushed him past his limits.

"GOD??!?" shrieked Raedian. "THAT'S THE MOST IRONIC THING I'VE HEARD COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH IN CENTURIES! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO AMAZING; YOU CAN DO ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING. _THE GLORIOUS, HONOURABLE CROWN PRINCE OF MIRKWOOD. __**YOU JUST WANT EVERYONE TO BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP YOU! **__**YOU DISGUST ME!!**_"__

Isilihir swore at his brother, using words that were barely suitable to be found in a slum, never mind a palace. "WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO TALK TO ME THAT WAY?!? YOU SHOULDN'T EVEN HAVE THE RIGHT TO TALK AT ALL! NO!!! I LIE!! YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO _LIVE_; **I'M REPULSED THAT I HAVE TO SHARE THE SAME AIR AS YOU, YOU **_**THING**_**!" **

"**GO TO HELL!!!"** roared Raedian.

"_**BURN**_** IN HELL!!"** came the screamed reply. ____

"_**I WON'T BE BURNING ANYWHERE!!! THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO BURN IN HELL ARE DISPICABLE AMBONIATIONS!! DEFORMATIES, NOBODIES; JUST LIKE YOU!! WHY DON'T YOU GO DOWN THERE AND BE THEIR LEADER?? ISILIHIR, PRINCE OF EVERYTHING THAT PAINS THE VALAR TO LOOK UPON!! PRINCE OF UDUN!! AN EQUAL TO SAURON!!!! EQUAL TO MORGOTH HIMSELF!!! **_

"_**GO SLIT YOUR WRISTS AND I PRAY TO ERU THAT IT HURTS MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WHOLE OF ARDA!!! AND WHEN EVERY LAST DROP OF BLOOD IS DRAINED FROM YOUR CORPSE, I WILL FINALLY KNOW WHAT PURE JOY IS!!! PURE RAPTURE!!!"**_

Raedian charged at his brother with the speed of one possessed, knocking straight into him and sending them both crashing into the wall. Isilihir instantly grabbed Raedian by the hair and attempted to smash his head against the hard, stone floor. Raedian in turn sent his foot into Isilihir's nose; blood spurted everywhere. In a fury born from seeing his own blood, Isilihir made to send a fist into his sibling's jaw, but was evaded by Raedian's hand coming up to block his own. And so the murderous fight went on…Raedian yowled as Isilihir grabbed his arm from behind and twisted it the wrong way, very nearly breaking it, and repaid his brother by punching him in the windpipe, causing him to momentarily choke. Grabbing Raedian around the chest, Isilihir flung him onto the floor and kicked him in the ribs, hard, before he could get back on his feet. The sound of bones breaking resounded through the atrium. But Isilihir was oblivious to it; he was seeing red. It never occurred to him that this was his little brother he was trying to kill. Raedian cried out loudly as he felt his bones snap and watched in horror as copious amounts of blood dripped from his mouth and unto the ground. He sat there, immobilised by the pain, but not just from pain: shock. His brother whom had always loved and cared for him had just broken at least three of his ribs, and seemed completely unconcerned by it. He just continued on pummelling Raedian, utterly regardless of the damage he was causing.

"Izzy… s-stop…please…" Raedian managed to utter between Isilihir's blows to his face. But Izzy didn't stop. If anything, he only became more violent and Raedian didn't have the strength to ward off his attacks. Slowly he felt himself lose consciousness. Coughing up more blood as Isilihir straddled his maimed chest to get a better aim at his unprotected face, Raedian tried to beg his brother through the look in eyes; he could no longer manage to form a word. But Isilihir, a look of utter detest upon his face, just kept sending his now bruised knuckles into Raedian's body. Again, and again, and again…

"ADA!!!" came a shriek from down the corridor.

Isilihir stopped his fist in mid-air.

Erenial ran towards the two fighting elves. "Ada! Stop!! Stop it!!" The elfling was crying, grabbing unto his father's shirt. He was frightened by his dad's actions – his ada was always so nice and kind to him, but now he looked like he was trying to murder Uncle Rae!

Isilihir lowered his fist and stared at the small being clutching at his chest. He could feel his son's tears seeping through the thin material.

Raedian moaned and moved feebly in a futile attempt at easing the excruciating pain emanating from his shattered rib cage, but Isilihir was still sitting atop him. Erenial pulled away from his stunned father and kneeled down beside Raedian.

"Uncle Rae, don't die…p-please don't die…" the child sobbed. Raedian opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice, and through his blurry vision, saw a distraught looking Eren kneeling over him. He mouthed the boy's name, in an attempt at showing him he was quite alright. But Erenial saw through it.

"Why are you so pale, Uncle Rae?" he whispered, scared. "And there's so much blood!" he looked around wide eyed at the puddles of red liquid surrounding his uncle. "DADDY, UNCLE RAE'S GOING TO BLEED TO DEATH!!!" he wailed, reacting to the sight of blood as any young child would.

Isilihir, who had finally gotten off Raedian, could only sit on the side-line and gape. He looked down at his hands. _Had he really done that?_ _Had he just…attacked his brother…injured his own brother? _He swallowed, suddenly feeling ill. Raedian coughed violently again, spewing up even more of life force. Erenial blanched even further.

"_Daddy! Daddy do something!" _Isilihir snapped back into reality at the sound of his child's desperate pleas. Wrenching his eyes away from the pools of crimson blood spotting the stone floor, he crawled over to his brother.

"Rae? Raedian?" He gingerly put out a shaky hand to touch his brother's shoulder. "Raedian? Raedian?! Come on, open your eyes, please!" His voice was wavering; breaking.

_What had he just done?_

"Raedian, come on!" Isilihir sobbed hoarsely. Raedian didn't move. He just lay there. "RAEDIAN!!" He was screaming.

"RAEDIAN, WAKE UP!! WAKE UP!!! PLEASE, RAE!! _WAKE UP!_"

The eyes remained firmly closed upon the white face.

"_COME ON LITTLE BROTHER!! COME ON, PLEASE!! VALAR, I'M SORRY, RAE!! I'M SO SORRY, I NEVER MEANT TO DO THAT, I'M SORRY!!! PLEASE!! PLEASE, RAE!! YOU'RE GOING TO BE ALRIGHT!! You're going to be alright…Wake up, please…__wake up……__wake up……__"_

Erenial ran. His ada wasn't getting any help – he was crying wretchedly, totally lost in his own hysterics. Eren thought his daddy never cried, because it just wasn't what daddies did, and the fact that his ada was sobbing uncontrollably on the floor over his brother's body scared Erenial past consolation.

So he ran. He ran to take over what would've normally been his ada's job – to get help.

"Daeral!!" the elfling cried, running into his brother's bedroom.

"Get lost, brat," replied the older sibling irritably. He was _so_ not in the mood to put up with Erenial's high-pitched whinging.

"Daeral!!!" Eren wasn't for giving up so easily.

"Shut up!!"

"But Daeral!!!" the younger elf had started to cry again.

Daeral stood up off his bed with a jolt and marched towards his intolerably annoying little brother. But something in his expression softened as he looked into Erenial's eyes. They weren't their usual, pathetic and wimpy wetness; there was something much deeper there.

Something was definitely wrong.

"What's the matter, Eren?" asked Daeral cautiously.

The elfling just frantically shook his head and took his brother by the hand, dragging him out off the door and down the stairs. He looked awfully wan now that Daeral had taken a good look as his face.

"Erenial; what happened?" his voice was sterner, laced with concealed panic, but again, Eren just continued dragging his brother in the direction of the incident.

"EREN!!" Daeral pulled his little brother to a halt and spun him around to face him.

With a choked sob Erenial uttered, "A-ada…uncle…R-rae…had a-a… fight."

"An argument?" Daeral was confused as to why an argument between his father and uncle would disturb his brother so deeply; those two were always arguing. However, when Erenial shook his head, Daeral felt his concern mount up a notch.

"A real fist-fight?" he queried quietly. Erenial nodded through his tears.

Daeral swallowed. "Are they hurt?" Eren nodded again and his brother felt his heart begin to speed up.

"Not ada. But Uncle Rae is. Ral, he's all white and still!! I'm scared Ral!! I'm scared…" Erenial hugged his stunned brother's legs and cried into them.

"Where are they, Eren?" Daeral asked softly, picking his little brother up.

"Downstairs," came the muffled answer; Eren had his face buried into Daeral's shoulder.

With a mounting sense of trepidation, Daeral descended down the staircase gradually, unsure of what he was going to come across at the bottom, or if he even wanted to come across anything.

But as his feet left the last step, he did come across something.

He came across his father, hugging his knees to his chest, with a blank expression.

In front of him lay a figure.

All white and still, just as Erenial had said he was.

Review or suffer my slaps. *slap* *slap* XD

Top of Form


	7. Retrieving the Blade

_**AN: Thanks for all the reviews so far; they're a real encouragement :) And thank you to the anonymous reviewer who noted my excessively long paragraphing throughout the story and told me how to improve – your comment was much appreciated. **_

_**Sorry for the wait… **_

_**The disclaimer blab's on the first chappy. **_

_**~~~~~~I**__**MPORTANT INFORMATION (In other words: please read)**___

_This story __**may**__ start to get slightly confusing for readers from here on in – it is of a mystery genre after all, and I intend to develop the plot in such a way that you have to be on the ball to really understand the whole thing. What I'm trying to say is that you have to be very attentive to detail. Basically, if I mention a little thing, e.g. a door being left ajar, you have to hold that in your mind in case it connects to something else. _

_I don't expect anybody to work out the whole mystery, as you're not supposed to be able to, but there are little bits that you might piece together. So, to quote a particular character of J.K Rowling's: CONSTANT VIGILANCE!!_

_And remember to inform me if you don't quite follow something. _

_**One other thing: It has been made known to me that the nickname Isilihir's family give him, 'Izzy' does not fit the Tolkien universe. This is in fact a very true and valid point, so I am hereby changing it to Issy, although it should still be pronounced with two Zs rather than two Ss. **_

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"Five minutes…Five minutes?" Tyrilden mused to himself. Jarvek's explanation had left him successfully perplexed. "No, that's not possible, how can that be? They were not traitors; he never mentioned their names…" he muttered out loud, attempting to come to some sort of conclusion. But try as he might, Tyrilden was able to come to no such consummation. The jigsaw simply did not fit.

_-Flashback- _

**Wheeling his horse around, Tyrilden looked towards the back of his war unit, where all the commotion seemed to be coming from. **

"**Do we have a problem?" asked the general, with an aura of impatience about him. **

"**Aldaron can't find his sword, sir."**

**Tyrilden sighed – people could be so infuriatingly clumsy at times. He rode over to the named elf, a reproachful expression on his face. "You have dropped it?"**

"**Yes, sir, I think so," answered Aldaron, poking around in his saddle bag. **

"**Go back and see if you can find it then," Tyrilden said tiredly. "You two," he motioned to the elves riding beside Aldaron. "Go with him." **

"**Yes, sir," the elves chorused before setting off back the way they had came. **

"**And remember, soldiers," called Tyrilden, bringing them to a halt. "Don't ride for more than ten minutes back down that path; it's not safe with such a small number."**

"**Yes, sir," they said again, resuming their gallop. Tyrilden watched them for a few more seconds before he too galloped to the front of the group. **

"**What was that about?" asked Legolas as the general rode up to him. **

"**Aldaron dropped his sword and I sent him back to retrieve it," Tyrilden replied.**

"**You'd think he would hear it drop," was the slightly callous retort. **

"**Indeed. Although with all the racket you and those other two hooligans were making…" **

"**Very funny." **

"**You're tired," Tyrilden stated, looking across at the prince, who had just succumbed to a massive yawn.**

"**No, not really, I'm fine." **

"**Legolas…" the older elf was no stranger to Legolas' 'I'm okay' act, and knew that it usually meant he wasn't alright at all. **

"**What?! There's nothing wrong with me!" Legolas snapped, rather defensively. **

"**Really? When you have only just been discharged from an infirmary after insisting to come on this mission, it wouldn't surprise me if something ****was**** wrong with you." **

"**I'm just tired, that's all," the prince said heatedly, glaring at the general. **

"**Well, I don't want you fainting again – it was rather problematic last time, you know," stated Tyrilden, all too conversationally. **

"_**I won't be fainting again, damn you!**_**" hissed Legolas, his cheeks flushing red. He glanced furtively behind him to check if anyone had heard the dreaded taboo Tyrilden had just blurted out. Elves did ****not**** faint, and Legolas really didn't need Tyrilden reminding him that he had, in fact, done just that only a few weeks before. **

**Tyrilden smirked slightly, but Legolas missed it. "You never know, Your Highness, you still look quite… well, err… ****fragile**** to me," he finished, amusement glinting in his brown eyes. **

"**FRAGILE?! WHAT IN UDUN IS 'FRAGILE' SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!" shouted an infuriated Legolas, all earlier concerns of drawing attention forgotten. **

"**It means delicate, My Lord, weak, easily broken…" **

**Legolas grabbed Tyrilden by the collar and proceeded in telling him just what exactly he thought of his definition, much to the surrounding warriors' entertainment. **

**Tyrilden couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Oh Valar, Legolas, you're so easy to wind up!!" he gasped out between his roars of laughter. Legolas scowled so darkly it would've made Morgoth cower behind his throne. That in turn only resulted in causing the other warriors to also succumb to the laughs they were trying so hard to hide. **

"**DO YOU WANT YOUR PAY REDUCED OR SOMETHING?!" yelled the irate prince. The elves immediately sobered up. Tyrilden however only laughed all the more. **

"**I've n-n-never…met some-b-body s-so…tease-able in a-a-all my l-life!!" He choked out. **

**Legolas glared at him. "Really now, General? I wonder if you've ever met anybody so 'prankster-ish' in all your life either?" he said with a sickeningly sweet smile. **

**That shut Tyrilden up. "Come on now, Legolas – I was only having a joke!!" he said with a decidedly nervous attempt at smiling. It was Legolas' turn to laugh. To Tyrilden's ears it sounded purely mischievous. **

"**YOU'RE GOING ****DOWN,**** GENERAL!!" yelled the prince, his eyes lighting up with a cunning spark. Tyrilden looked ****very**** anxious to say the least; it was not discreet knowledge that the youngest son of King Thranduil knew how to go about getting revenge, and getting it well. **

"**What have I just gotten myself into…?" the general asked of the air around him, closing his eyes in utter consternation. **

"**A seriously worrisome scenario!!" Legolas answered, still howling in mirth.**

**Tyrilden groaned. **

**It was shortly after that that the sound of hooves was heard, and the three elves who had been sent to find the missing sword, returned. **

"**Ah, excellent; you're back!!!" cried a relieved and seemingly delighted Tyrilden, much to the elves confusion. Unbeknownst to them, their general was not actually all that elated at seeing them return, but rather at being saved from the sticky situation with Legolas. **

"**We found Aldaron's blade, sir," one ventured, staring rather anxiously at his absurdly overjoyed general. Tyrilden looked as though he would rush towards them and envelope them all in a massive hug. They only had to look from Legolas, whose face was that of twisted mirth, emerged in his mischievous plans, to the fidgety warriors, and lastly, to Tyrilden's strangely tense relief, to piece together what had happened. **

**Pulling himself together, Tyrilden quickly returned to his normal behaviour, and asked primly, as though his momentary lapse of protocol had never occurred, "You only went back for ten minutes?"**

"**Yes, sir, ten minutes there, and ten minutes back." **

"**Then that is good," said Tyrilden with a fearful glance at his prince, resolving to keep ever vigilant for the next month. **

_-End flashback- _

Tyrilden let out an exasperated groan. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He closed his eyes in sheer frustration. There was something going on; something unexplainable, something unnatural, something…paranormal. Something that Tyrilden wished he had never gotten involved with.

Giving up was never an attribute a general held in his arsenal, but on this occasion, it was one that this general was forced to use.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Legolas had no choice but to walk down the dreary passage, flanked by two Nazgul as he was. They had reached the malevolent structure that was known as Dol Guldur in the Sindarin tongue, or translated as 'The Head of Dark Sorcery'; the Necromancer's stronghold. He listened to the dull _clank, clank _of the Nazgul's feet as they drifted along, emotionless and undeterred from their duty as always. The sound was something of an alarm. An alarm alerting him to the danger that he was getting steadily closer to. Each rhythmic thud drove another nail of panic and apprehension into his uneasy mind. How he wished that he could block that incessant noise from his head, or at least somehow change it to something more erratic, less methodical – it was only serving to pummel the knowledge of the inevitable future into every iota of his being. The future that somewhere entailed excruciating pain, and eventually, his death. Whether that eventuality was imminent or not was a different matter altogether, and one that Legolas resolved not to think too deeply about.

"I'll take him from here," came a voice from behind Legolas, chillier than any frost the coldest night could ever have produced. Legolas spun around and laid eyes on Jarvek's tall form, merely inches from his own. How he had managed to get there with neither the Nazgul nor Legolas having sensed him was something that never could have been understood. The Nazgul obediently glided off, leaving Legolas alone with Jarvek.

A full minute of silence ensued. No-one spoke. Legolas kept his eyes glued onto Jarvek, fully expecting the elder elf to make a lunge towards him. His next action was, however, quite unanticipated.

"Are you going to run, Legolas?"

The prince gawked at him. Jarvek just continued refastening his gauntlet.

"Well?" The tone was not the usual cold, macabre taunt, but rather the simple curiosity of one asking a purely conversational question.

Jarvek looked up, expecting an answer. Legolas stood transfixed on the spot. This elf, who was clearly about to drag him into some form of hideous torture-room, was quite calmly asking him if he was going to escape or not – as if he had a choice in the matter!

There was something about Jarvek's eyes that was truly captivating to those staring into their morgul-green depths. But not captivating in the sense of adoration, captivating in the sense that one could not look away. They were imprisoning, threatening, almost _daring_ whatever was reflected in them to look elsewhere. They were utterly manipulative; hypnotising was the most precise way of describing them, but yet, even that did not do the look that Jarvek was giving Legolas justice.

Subconsciously, Legolas found himself silently shaking his head to Jarvek's question. It had not been his initially intended response, but it was as though something else was controlling his actions, robbing him of the ability to use his own body. As Legolas gazed, trancelike, into the hideously malicious, yet hauntingly beautiful eyes of Jarvek, he knew exactly who it was that was taking over his mind. And he could do absolutely nothing about it.

After what seemed like a millennium, Jarvek broke off his enamouring stare and laughed lightly, an icy chuckle, when Legolas gasped as he was flung back into normality.

"Good, I'm glad you won't try and escape, boy," stated Jarvek softly, "because it would really be a hopeless waste of my time, and moreover, completely useless." He grabbed the younger elf by his hair to hold him still, before resting his chin on the prince's shoulder and whispering, "There's no way out, Legolas. You're stuck here until I finally decide to grant you your blessed death, and believe me, elfling: it will be blessed by the time I'm done with you." Legolas stared stoically ahead, unfazed.

With his hand still entangled in Legolas' hair, Jarvek dragged him towards the door at the end of the lightless corridor. Legolas didn't put up much of a struggle; it was useless as Jarvek had said. He knew that there was no point in trying to waylay the certain torment that awaited him behind that single, locked door that stood so forlornly at the end of the passage.

Jarvek brought forth the key to Legolas' impending doom. With much revulsion, Legolas noticed that the key was in perfect condition, devoid of any rust whatsoever as though it was in use everyday of the week. It wouldn't have surprised Legolas in the slightest if the key _was_ in use everyday of the week.

With unbearable slowness the door creaked open, but unlike most open doors light did not fly out of it to attack the darkness, rather it seemed that an even darker blackness oozed out of the threshold. Biting down on his crippling fear, Legolas stared into the gloom trying to decipher the layout of the room. With a reverberating clang the door swung shut, and with it, Legolas' hope of escape. The prince's attention was drawn back to Jarvek as the elder elf lit a piece of wood and put it on a bracket on the wall. Shadows began a ghostly dance across the walls, and the dull light of the flames illuminated Jarvek's hair even more than usual.

Walking away from the new source of light, Jarvek strode carelessly towards Legolas, forcing him to back up further into the room lest he wanted to be barged into, something that Jarvek appeared to be trying to do. Coming to a halt, Jarvek absently picked up a weighty looking chain. Legolas gazed on apprehensively as his captor casually swung the iron fetter back and forth, staring at Legolas nonchalantly the whole time. Without so much as a blink, Jarvek rushed at the younger elf knocking backwards onto the cold, hard ground and immediately shoved his knee down onto Legolas' chest, effectively pinning him. Legolas struggled just as much for breathe as for escape; Jarvek was by no means light, even by human standards. He put it down to the elf's mere height and size, another aspect that made him one of the most formidable opponents one could ever have faced. However, the prince could no longer dwell on the trivial matter anymore as Jarvek had begun to bind his hands together. Legolas fought wildly trying to buck the deranged elf off him, but to no avail.

Before he knew it his hands were bound in front of him, completely useless. Still pinned onto the floor, Legolas gave up his futile effort to break free and instead spat into Jarvek's sneering face. The sneer was abruptly wiped off. Grimacing, the older elf wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and sent his fist into Legolas' jaw.

Legolas' head would have ricocheted off the ground if it hadn't have been already upon it. Refusing to let Jarvek see just how badly his last action had hurt, Legolas simply glared at his tormentor, trying to block the aching pain in his jaw from the forefront of his mind.

Showing no recognition of either glee at having caused the youth pain, or irritation at the fact he was trying to hide it, Jarvek stood up, and with him, dragged Legolas. Pushing the archer into the centre of the gruesome chamber, Jarvek then kicked his feet from under him, resulting in Legolas landing hard on the floor with a gasp.

Jarvek was upon him again before he knew it. "It's not wise to spit in a sadist's face, you know," he murmured nastily in the prince's ear. "It gives them grisly ideas on what kinds of new methods of pain to induce," he continued, shoving Legolas back against a supporting pillar and beginning to chain him to it. Legolas attempted to kick out at him, but the skilled warrior easily dodged it, and continued on heartlessly.

Once finished, Jarvek stood up and stepped backwards, as though admiring his handiwork. Stalking over to the wall, he began to file through the many torture implements arrayed along it. It was his little gallery.

"What do you reckon we should use first?" he contemplated with mock innocence, his back still turned towards Legolas.

Legolas watched tensely as Jarvek fiddled through the repulsive objects. He couldn't actually see what it was Jarvek was handling, but the clinking sounds of fashioned metal gave him all too good an idea of the sort of things laid out on the otherwise bare wall.

Swallowing his fear, Legolas endeavoured to keep his cool. He was a prince; a leader; an idol of unfaltering calm and courage. He needed to keep that in mind, however irrational it may seem. His thoughts drifted back to his many lessons in swordplay and archery. He was attempting to sift out any useful information that he may have absorbed in the past that could help him see this through. Or even…escape.

'_No, that's just ludicrous; I've no hope of escape unless I'm rescued.' _

Pushing the delusional prospect of rescue from his mind, Legolas still couldn't help but wonder about the idea of escaping. He recalled hearing his archery tutor, Fortarthin, mention assassins and spies in passing. They were both professions only found in the human race, as elves usually held a strong belief against guile, and even more so, against killing for money. Fortarthin had deemed it ironic that agents were only ever human, as humans were generally less agile and graceful than elves. But the master archer had gone onto say that this was why racial discrimination should never be partaken of. He said that no elf could ever match the prowess that a spy or assassin held in agility, stealth or even fighting. Legolas had found this highly surprising – the archery tutor was known to be one of the best in all those things, and was also known to be sparing in his praises, and therefore rarely exaggerated. The prince found himself wondering just how talented these humans were if Fortarthin showed them this much respect. And just how they managed to become that talented…

He supposed the skills learnt through such a profession were what he needed right now to escape from Jarvek's clutches, and if Fortarthin had clearly stated that no elf could ever match their expertise, then Legolas realised with certain reluctance that he really was quite stuck in the morbid torture-chamber that Jarvek seemed to know as well as his own self.

Pulling out of his nostalgic reverie, Legolas noticed the older elf had come to a decision on what item to use first.

He felt his pulse rate increase rapidly as Jarvek made his way towards him. With amazing willpower, Legolas forced himself not to squirm in his restraints. Showing fear at this moment was anything but a clever thing to do.

But apparently Legolas' act of bravery was lost on Jarvek.

Laughing, as though to himself, Jarvek knelt down in front of his captive and said with mock regret, "I'm afraid I never really liked the theatre, Legolas."

But Legolas wasn't listening. His eyes were glued onto the object in Jarvek's hand. His throat suddenly felt very dry.

Jarvek fingered the razor as one would handle their most precious possession, watching almost dazedly as the light from the flames flickered over the flawless blade, reflecting the room and it's malignant secrets as though it were a mirror. Looking upwards, Jarvek gave Legolas a smile that would've frozen hell itself.

"Let the games begin."

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Huirlith put down his book as he heard movement from the bed beside him. "Nice to have you back on earth," he said cheerily. Raedian went to put a hand to his eyes to clear his vision, but abruptly let it fall down again with a hiss.

"I don't think you should move so fast next time," stated his brother matter-of-factly.

"Oh really, Huirlith?" Raedian replied sardonically, albeit hoarsely, wincing at the pressure speaking put on his damaged ribs.

"At least you're able to move," said Huirlith, apparently not noticing the sarcasm.

"How long have I been unconscious for?" asked Raedian, tentatively feeling the bandages wrapped around his midriff.

"Three days, I think. You know, the healers had to cut open your chest to push your ribs back in place they were so badly distorted. It looked rather like you'd been trampled by a herd of bulls," said Huirlith conversationally. "One grazed the lining of your lung and nearly punctured it and another almost came out through your skin. They had to extract it from your flesh and Kethiron nearly ran you through with a scalpel in the process, which would've been rather messy, although the floor was already covered in blood so it wouldn't have made much difference to whoever had the job of cleaning it in the long run. He's usually very proficient and assiduous during operations, but I suppose we all have our moments," he continued distantly. "Maybe he had too much to drink; I always did think he was too carefree about how much alcohol he consumed in one day…and then there was that time he tripped over his cloak and landed on top of Issy…hmm…yes, definitely a drink problem." With that conclusion, Huirlith picked up his glass and resumed stirring what appeared to be lemon juice with pumpkin chunks and a mint leaf on the top.

"Where is Isilihir?" asked Raedian acidly, Huirlith's graphic description of his operation instantly shoved from his thoughts as he remembered the reason he needed an operation in the first place.

"I don't know…I haven't seen him in days."

"What, is he too much of a coward to show his face!?" spat Raedian.

"Rae, he didn't mean it, he just lost control…I'm sure he –"

"_SO YOU'RE ON HIS SIDE NOW?!" _Raedian interrupted his older brother, ignoring the searing pain his sudden rise in volume caused.

"Raedian, there's no need to shout," replied Huirlith calmly, still stirring his drink.

"My Lord, please, you will damage yourself further..." Kethiron pleaded, having just ran into the room upon hearing the commotion.

"THEN GET THAT SPAWN OF MORDOR IN HERE NOW!!" yelled Raedian, only stopped from lunging at the healer by Huirlith grabbing onto his shirt.

"Come now; is he really that bad?"

"Raedian glared at the new entrant to the argument.

"Your Majesty," the flustered Kethiron acknowledged with a quick bow.

Thranduil walked into the room and towards the bed, sitting on the edge. "Thank you, Kethiron," he said quietly. It was a clear dismissal.

With a slight nod, Kethiron gladly made his quick escape from the tense room. Huirlith too got up and wandered out of the room still drinking his unusual concoction, with the same dream-like and untroubled expression as always.

Raedian continued boring holes into the wall.

"Lie down, Raedian," the king ordered softly.

There was a moments pause before Raedian obeyed, sliding back down into the bed. He still hadn't looked at his father.

"Did Erenial fetch a healer then?" asked Raedian coolly, breaking the awkward silence.

"He got Daeral, who then called on a healer." Thranduil knew where this was leading to.

"On behalf of his father?"

"Raedian…"

"Isilihir couldn't even bother to get help? Does he hate me that much?!"

"No, Rae, please…"

"_I COULD'VE DIED!! HE NEARLY KILLED ME!! HE TRIED TO KILL HIS OWN BROTHER!!" _ Raedian shot up and grabbed his father by the collar. "DON'T YOU CARE?! DO YOU HATE ME AS WELL?! ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME TO FORGIVE HIM?! JUST FORGET ABOUT IT??!! FORGET THAT MY BROTHER TRIED TO MURDER ME!!!!" Raedian's fists were clenched in the material of his father's shirt, but Thranduil made no move to disengage himself from his son's hold.

"Why?"

It was such a simple question; a whispered question; a real question.

Raedian leaned his head against his father's shoulder, still clenching his shirt.

'_Why?' _

'_Why.' _

_Why. _

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Isilihir gazed into nothingness. He felt dead. He felt heartless. He felt soulless. He still could not comprehend what he had done. Even when Silithion had came to see him with the news that Raedian was going to be alright, he couldn't bring himself to move, to speak. He just sat there.

His wife Ninwythile had not even been able to move him, even when she had shouted at him that he was scaring Erenial with his behaviour and that Daeral needed a father who acted like one. She was a strong woman, and one thing she would not stand for was to see her children harmed, whether it was mentally or physically. She refused to take it. So she left him to hide from the world and made sure that she was there for her sons even if her husband wasn't. It was a mother's responsibility and one she would never forget or forsake.

Even if that meant forsaking her other half.

"Are you going to sit there until hell freezes over?"

Isilihir looked up and laid eyes on Fortarthin. The master archer looked down at him, his face as expressionless as ever.

Isilihir said nothing.

"Coward."

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood stood up for the first time in three days and met the elder elf eyeball to eyeball. "_You __**dare**__ have the audacity to call me that?!" _he hissed.

"Prove that you're not then," growled Fortarthin, unperturbed by his Lord's ire.

"GET OUT!!"

"Be a man, Isilihir." With that, he left, Isilihir's furious gaze burning into his back. But it wasn't fury at Fortarthin.

For deep down, he knew Fortarthin was right.

Isilihir all but fled from the room.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#

_**There it was. 3 months late. **__*** Sheepish grin * **_

_**Review? Pretty please? :) **___


	8. State of Emergency

_**The blab's on the first chappy.**_

_**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

Legolas bit down on his tongue, hard. So hard in fact that the blood was dribbling down his chin. But he barely noticed. All his focus was channelled into not making any noise, despite the pain that was now coursing through his body without respite.

But he was fighting a losing battle, and Jarvek knew it. "Go ahead and scream, boy," he hissed into the prince's ear. "You're only making it harder on yourself…"

Legolas just closed his eyes.

Jarvek sat back on his heels to take a look at his artwork, twisting the scarlet coated razor in his hands. Bleeding welts marred Legolas' torso, but that wasn't what turned Legolas' stomach. It was the fact that those lines weren't just crisscrossing slashes; they were something much deeper. Something much more sinister.

They were words.

In the Black speech.

"I'm finding it rather difficult to get a good angle for this," remarked Jarvek matter-of-factly. "It would be much easier if you were lying flat out rather than against a pillar…" With that, he swiftly untied Legolas and yanked him up by his hair. Legolas winced. "And your hair's getting in the way of my masterpiece as well…" the sadist stated mildly.

Jarvek dragged him further into the chamber and towards what appeared to be a stone table. Legolas didn't get long to look at the crude object before Jarvek quite literally threw him on top of it. Wasting no time, Jarvek held Legolas down with a hand to his windpipe, but made no move to tie him down. It was as though he was waiting for something. Or someone…

"Will you imbeciles hurry up and get down here?!" Jarvek was as impatient as ever.

"Our apologies, sir."

Legolas' heart skipped a beat.

"Just get over here and tie the brat down!" Jarvek snarled. "Or you can spend a night in the dungeons. With the Nazgul."

They hastened to obey.

"Do stop struggling, Legolas. It's such a waste of time," said Jarvek tiredly, as though Legolas' attempts at removing Jarvek's hand from his throat were nothing more than slightly irksome, like a fly flapping around his head just waiting to be swatted.

Legolas was so busy attempting to get out of Jarvek's hold that he hadn't noticed the elves had reached the table. They soon changed that though.

Legolas kicked out at the hand that suddenly grabbed his leg, but he wasn't able to shake it off, for another elf had quickly joined in the struggle and Jarvek still had him by the throat. It didn't take him long to realise that there was no way he was ever going to win this fight, especially not against other elves. Before he knew it, they had tied one of his legs down, and by that time they'd managed to get hold of his arms as well. Jarvek let go of his throat and moved backwards, sneering all the while. Legolas swore at him.

"Now, now; that's not very prince like, is it?"

Legolas ignored him and instead pulled against the elves holding his arms. But it had no effect; they had too great an advantage. In only a matter of seconds, Legolas had totally lost all ability to move more than half an inch in any given direction.

"Like I said, before: your hair really is just too long…" With that, Jarvek grabbed Legolas' hair from behind and took the pair of scissors being reached out to him by one of the elves. It seemed they had come well prepared. Jarvek made sure to wave them in Legolas' line of sight; just for his own warped entertainment. Legolas glared at the ceiling.

The surrounding elves' raucous laughter resounded through the dreary room as Jarvek unevenly snipped off the hair he was holding in his hand, smirking as he did it. Legolas just continued staring at the damp stone above him, refusing to let the taunts and jeers of his former kinsman get to him, and trying to block the sound of the scissors from his mind. For an elf to have their hair cut off was one of the most humiliating things that could have been done to them. It was a sign of beauty, of grace and wisdom; it marked them out as one of the eldar. But to have it cut off – how would they ever be able to face the world again? People would mock, and ridicule and whisper…But as Legolas thought on it he supposed it didn't matter in the long run, for he knew there was no way he would ever get out of this room and have to face the stares.

He was going to die.

Jarvek walked around the table into Legolas' line of sight, holding the golden hair up for all to see. "There," he said, looking down at Legolas with a mocking smile, "that's much better."

Legolas refused to look at him.

"You can leave now, but you might get a chance to come in again later if you're good," said Jarvek to the elven audience. They obeyed, snickering as they left. Legolas recognised one of the retreating elves as a former member of his unit and he averted his eyes. He wondered why they put up with Jarvek's patronising tones; it was one thing for Jarvek to patronise a captive who had barely turned of age, but it was another for him to condescend his followers who (for the most if it) had certainly been adults for a good while, even by elven standards. Legolas supposed they didn't really have much choice in the matter – they just accepted that that was the way it had to be. He didn't blame them for not wanting to stand up to Jarvek; Valar only knows what he would do to them…

"Now, with that done we can get onto more exciting things, can't we?" remarked Jarvek in a cheery tone that belied his real personality.

"Can't we?" the tone had changed dramatically. It was now a pure threat. He wanted an answer. But Legolas gave none.

"Such defiance…"

"What am I supposed to say?!" spat Legolas.

"You're supposed to agree with whatever _I _say."

Legolas glared at him.

"Well, you might as well…You're already one step of the way there."

"What?"

"It's 'excuse me', boy – did your father never teach you manners?"

Silence.

Jarvek tutted.

"I'll have to teach you those as well. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. What I meant was that you're already scared enough, so you may as well give in to your emotions…" Jarvek spoke like he was a teacher painstakingly explaining a valuable lesson for the umpteenth time.

"How would you know what I'm feeling?!"

Legolas must have realised how childish his question sounded for even in the ill lit room it wasn't hard to see him flush.

Jarvek smiled humourlessly. "How? Your very soul radiates it, boy. It's not hard to see…I can nearly smell it." Leaning down closer to Legolas' ear, he whispered, "And I'll most certainly make sure I can hear it before the day's out."

Legolas couldn't help but try and turn his head away from the sadistic being beside him. Jarvek laughed softly, bringing his hand up to Legolas' chin and forcing his head back towards him again. "I told you you were scared."

"Look at me, Legolas." It was an order. One that was disobeyed.

Jarvek reached down towards the floor, his hand still holding Legolas' chin. Legolas tensed as he heard metal scraping against the hard floor. Jarvek heard the sharp intake of breath as he let Legolas feel the touch of the cold blade against his skin. He dragged the razor up the middle of Legolas' torso with unbearable slowness, enjoying the way the youth's breathing gradually started to speed up. Taking his hand away from the prince's chin, he instead brought up over his eyes, blocking Legolas' vision. Legolas felt his heart beat speed up. He knew that there was no reason to be so panicked, but Jarvek was drawing patterns over his skin with a razor and he couldn't see what he was doing, or where he was going next. It made the feel of the metal so much more magnified. It was a truly claustrophobic sensation, and try as he might, he couldn't stop it from working him up. But then that was exactly the reaction Jarvek was looking for, and it wouldn't do for him not to get his own way.

The sadist decided to mount it up a notch.

Legolas jerked as he felt the blade slide across his jugular. Jarvek smirked. He considered vaguely whether it would be worth the while seeing how long (or not) it would take before he drove the prince to hyperventilation.

He decided it would be.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Isilihir strode down the corridor, attracting more than a few second glances. Inevitably, word of the incident with his brother Raedian had spread throughout the palace and beyond. But Isilihir paid no attention. He knew where he was going and he would get there, staring or no staring.

But as he reached his destination he realised that perhaps he wasn't as sure as he thought he was. He stood with his hand poised to knock on the door of his father's study, but he couldn't bring himself to go any further.

He didn't have to, however.

"Enter."

Isilihir stiffened upon hearing his father's voice. Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

Thranduil watched as his eldest son came into the room and closed the door behind him. He made no move to cross the threshold.

Father and son stood there, each regarding the other with a sense of judgement gained and perfected through millenniums of politics.

"You came here for a reason." It was not a question.

Isilihir inclined his head.

"Should it not be Raedian who you owe a visit?" Neither Thranduil's face nor voice held love. But neither did they hold detest, either.

"He would want to see me?"

"Silithion might need to restrain him…"

If it hadn't been such a serious situation, Isilihir would've laughed. But in the scenario he found himself in, it was anything but funny.

Still Isilihir had not moved closer to the king.

Thranduil motioned for his son to come nearer and Isilihir complied, slowly making his way across the marble floor towards the desk. He stopped directly in front Thranduil. Getting up, the king walked around the table and faced the crown prince.

The force of Thranduil's hand slamming into Isilihir's face snapped his head around, his hair momentarily blinding his vision. He made no move to turn his face towards his father again. With that, Thranduil strode from the room, leaving Isilihir with his head still turned towards the wall.

In time the king would regret that action, but at that moment the effect that Legolas' disappearance and Isilihir's attack on Raedian had on him was just too much.

It was also the 500th anniversary of his wife leaving for the Grey Havens.

Sometimes things got too stressful.

Even for a king.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is all we need!!" barked Fortarthin looking at the slaughtered elves scattered across the forest ground.

They were the bodies of one of the rescue parties sent out to find Prince Legolas and his unit, discovered by an unfortunate messenger returning from Lothlorien. The other two groups were found in exactly the same condition: dead.

Huirlith gazed on despondently. There was no need for such massacres, especially not at the present time.

"My Prince, what should we do?"

Huirlith pulled his eyes away from the bodies and looked at Lord Direnal.

"In my opinion, it would be wise to start searching for any tracks leading towards the sites and begin to follow them," drawled the knight.

"Yes, somehow it doesn't surprise me that you would think that way, Direnal," retorted Fortarthin curtly.

"Well, have you any better ideas?"

"I would suggest we search the area for any clues on how many enemies there were and what weapons were used, which would give us an idea on what race they were and if it is at all possible for us to track them without being massacred ourselves," replied the master archer, his ire and impatience rising.

"That is exactly what I meant – why would I suggest we follow them without looking for a header to begin with?!" Lord Direnal raised an eyebrow and gave Fortarthin a pompously incredulous gape.

"Because you are an arrogant fool, Lord Direnal, who has absolutely no expertise in anything vaguely resembling hunting or tracking."

The surrounding warriors choked back their laughter.

Lord Direnal, however, didn't find it amusing in the slightest. He turned rather red, to say the least.

"But regardless of what either of us think," began Fortarthin over Direnal's splutters of indignation, "it is ultimately up to Prince Huirlith to decide what we should do and how it should be done."

All eyes turned to the named prince (who didn't appear to be listening).

"Fortarthin, what do you make of this?" inquired Huirlith, pulling down a tree branch and looking at it interestedly.

As Fortarthin walked over, Direnal's face turned even redder at having not been asked for his opinion.

Fortarthin looked at the blood spattered leaf and his brow furrowed. "What are you thinking, Huirlith?" he asked quietly, for the prince's ears only.

"Hmm, just an inkling…"

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

"There was blood found on the surrounding trees at all three massacre sites…" he began, still gazing distantly at the leaf.

Everybody waited.

"And there were arrows found in many of the slain warriors…"

If anybody had been watching the scene they would've sworn that Huirlith's audience leaned in.

"…mmm…"

They leaned in even further.

"………"

A bit further still…

"…but none of the warriors had any bows on them," he finished, as though that solved everything.

Everyone stared at him blankly. Except Fortarthin.

"So there were several elves in the trees, then," he clarified.

"Elves? Who said anything about elves?" asked Direnal irritably.

Fortarthin sighed, closed his eyes and counted to ten.

"No-one, Direnal, but it is rather conspicuous considering the light imprints covering the ground which suggest that all participants in the fight were of our race, doubled with the fact that only an elf would have the agility to mange their way through the treetops without falling out or being spotted." He opened his eyes and breathed in.

"The imprints? I thought you had rather inferred in your previous suggestion for a plan of action that you hadn't looked closely for clues on which race it was that initiated the massacre." Direnal wasn't for giving up.

"I said that to show you up, you idiot. Of course I looked at the prints – it was the first ruddy thing I looked for!"

The warriors swallowed their laughter for a second time.

"Whilst I was looking I also discovered that there were no tracks leading up to any of the incidents, and that several of the slain elves' blades were of a Mirkwood design," Fortarthin added, ignoring the shaking Direnal.

"Hmm…indeed," said Huirlith absently.

"It appears we have traitors on our hands."

There was a unanimous gasp at the revelation.

"Nonsense," stated Direnal with a wave of his hand.

Fortarthin looked like he might jump off a cliff.

"We must inform my father. Although…there's something just not right…" Huirlith was as arcane as ever.

Direnal looked outraged.

"Come on then," the prince called lightly to his men. But something still plagued his mind.

It was the expressions on the dead warriors' faces. There was savage contempt present, as was to be expected of a group of traitors.

But on the loyal elves faces…

…there was exactly the same feral, barbaric expression.

No fear.

No surprise.

Just mad wrath.

Pure, mad wrath.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So that's the height of it then," concluded Silithion, having just reported to the bed-ridden Raedian on Huirlith and Fortarthin's findings.

Upon arriving at the palace, Huirlith had reported to his father the whole situation. It turned out that there were sentries found dead whilst the prince and his party had been out, and that they had been killed by what appeared to be three elves, two of which were clearly injured due to the blood trail they unwittingly left behind them. Due to this, their journey was able to be tracked, and it turned out that they were the same elves that had shot down the parties from the trees. Fortarthin confirmed that the amount of arrows used fitted that of three back-up fighters.

The only problem was that their tracks were unable to be followed before they reached the sentries. The only plausible explanation available was that they had travelled through the trees to get there, and they had been injured during the fight with the guards, hence why there was no blood found on any of the surrounding foliage they could have used to get there.

It was all but impossible to track a person though trees – the unevenness of the bark made it utterly unfeasible to see any footprints or marks.

So that was the explanation Thranduil and his kingdom settled on. Everyone in the kingdom except Huirlith.

'It's just an inkling...' as he would say.

Silithion yawned.

Huirlith and his inklings…

…he was forever having them.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#

_**A review wouldn't kill you would it? **_

_And now I really must go to bed… _


	9. Raising the Stakes

_**~~~~~~~~~~~~WARNING!**___

_**This chapter involves implied torture and a strong use of psychological torture – if you don't like, don't read.**_

_**POTENTIAL CRITICS / FLAMERS PLEASE READ AND TAKE HEED:**_

_**Punctuation is somewhat 'abused' in this passage, particularly ellipses. However, this is intentional as this chapter is written in a strange manner – during the torture scene there are no adjectives used to describe what is happening (there are no 'he yelled', 'I exclaimed', 'he dropped it' or 'they cleaned it up's to be found. Or any phrases similar to those – you get what I mean, I hope). It is written in third person minus the descriptive language which gives it an almost third / first person feel. This means that to create the different emotions without specifically writing them in, punctuation has to be used to a greater extent. **_

_**I hope that the odd use of punctuation will have a self-explanatory effect as you read it in context. **_

_**~~~Sentences with single quotation marks ('') and in italics are thoughts ones with double ("") are being spoken aloud. **_

_**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

Legolas lay on his side staring blankly at the damp wall in front of him; unseeing, his arm, dangling off the stone table as lifeless as though it belonged to a corpse. He could hear the steady _'drip'_ of his blood dribbling down his limp hand and onto the floor beneath it where a crimson pool was quickly growing.

He felt numb. His entire body was completely insensitive_._ He attempted to make his fingers move so to brush the once blonde, now scarlet hair out of his eyes, but to no avail. His body simply wouldn't respond to anything he wished it to do.

So he just closed his eyes and prayed for it all to end. He didn't want to see Jarvek's sneering countenance ever again. He didn't want to have to watch that same icy smirk crawl over his features, powerless to do anything to stop the malignant plots forming in his radically perverse mind; he didn't want to hear those blood-curdling screams ever again or to realise that those blood-curdling screams were coming from none other than himself. He never wanted to feel that kind of excruciating pain again, or to be brought so low as to be made cry like a young elfling and shriek 'Please, stop!' at his tormentor only to hear the same harshly whispered reply - 'No!' followed by that same, pitiless, psychopathic _laugh_. To hear those words again and again: '_Scream for me!' _and to 'live up to expectations' as it were - it made him almost think to himself _'die already…' _ But he was still alive, still seeing Jarvek's malign form through crimson vision, even in the dark and lonely void of his thoughts. With every _'You're a disgrace to your country!'_ he couldn't help but think, '_Am I really?' _With every_ 'A prince doesn't scream!' _there was a _'He's right…' _Every _'I'll tear a thousand screams out of you before this is finished' came with a 'Valar, please don't let it come to that...' _

"I'll drain every drop of blood from your dying body!"

'_Don't...' _

"I'll make sure your screams will be heard from here to Mordor, brat!"

'_Please…!' _

"How about I send your torn body back to your father, would he like that? A pleasant wake-up surprise, don't you think?"

"NO!"

"I see we've decided to make a response – how delightful."

"Go to hell…"

"Not right now, my _prince_; I'm having far too much fun…"

'_Valar, just burn already…' _

"…to die just yet…"

'_Just leave me alone…' _

"…I still haven't seen you bleed enough…"

'_Ai, haven't you had enough…?' _

"…for my satisfaction."

'_I can't take this anymore…'_

"Where do you want to start? Your arm looks a tad too pristine, I think. Yes… we'll start there. Too bad you'll never be able to shoot another arrow again…"

'_**Don't touch me…!' **_

"Why squirm? You won't get anywhere. Just keep still and it will be over quicker then, I promise…relax…and everything will be so much easier…so much less painful…give me your wrist, princeling… I'll do it 'nicely', I promise…give it to me…"

'_**Please…don't make me…'**_

"Come on, Legolas … …be a good boy……"

'_**Just leave me alone!! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?!'**_

"Your wrist, Legolas, I'm giving you a chance: this way, or the hard way."

"Stop it, already!"

"…Come on, don't be foolish, child…I don't usually give choices…"

'_**What choices you sadistic--!' **_

"Recognise that scream? Then again you've probably never heard him scream before."

"Your wrist, brat, or his."

"I HATE YOU!!"

"Give me your wrist, you little fool, and I'll do it the nice way, or don't, and I'll slash your poor, innocent, unwitting friends' wrists…the choice is yours."

'_**DAMN YOU!! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?! DON'T MAKE ME CHOOSE THIS! WHY CAN'T YOU STOP?! JUST STOP IT!!'**_

"Give me your wrist…come on…"

"THEN TAKE IT!!!"

"No. I want you to offer it to me, princeling, and I want you to do it now, before I lose my patience."

"**FOR WHAT PURPOSE?!?****" **

"For my purpose. If I told you, it would give away the whole game, wouldn't it now?"

"…Very well; don't _deign_ to answer then, Your Royal Highness."

"**WHY CAN'T YOU DIE AND LEAVE ME ALONE?!?" **

"My, His Highness has a rather incorrigible temper to say the least…"

"…I'm getting impatient, princeling…I'm going to start counting down unless you give me what I want--"

"**THERE'S NOTHING STOPING YOU FROM TAKING IT!!"**

"But there is: your fear. Be brave Legolas. Think of your friends. Be chivalrous; be a prince."

"10……"

"**STOP IT!!!**** PLEASE, ****DON'T!! ****DARO!! PLEASE!!!"**

"9……"

"**STOP...****STOP IT**! …… saes…"

"8…You don't have to cry, it's alright; it could be so much worse…"

"......."

"7……here, I'll wipe the tears away…"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!!! GET THE HELL OFF ME!!"

"6……Don't make me injure that pretty face as well."

"DON'T, please!"

"5……"

"I CAN'T……p-please…I really…c-can't…"

"4……come on, Legolas …"

"3……your wrist…give me your wrist…"

"**I CAN'T!!!" **

"2…don't cry…"

"……**!"**

"1……"

"Good boy."

'………'

"Trying to pull out of my grasp isn't going to help you overly much, I'm sorry to inform you…"

"**SHUT UP!!! JUST SHUT UP WILL YOU?!?" **

"You really don't have to cry so much, you know. It's not worth it…"

"**STOP TALKING, DAMN IT!!" **

"Are you scared? Don't be scared, I'll be gentle…I _was_ planning to drench your wrist in acid after I slit it, but seeing how worked-up you already are…."

"It's alright…stop struggling…I'm not going to do it……stop crying…"

'_Can't he stop patronising me?!' _

"……you don't have to be so scared……stop whimpering……it's best you turn your head the other way whilst I do it…here, I'll do it for you…"

'_**Get off me!! Get your foot off my neck! **__**STOP EMPHASISING HOW MUCH CONTROL YOU HAVE OVER ME!! **__**STOP TORMENTING ME!! JUST GET ON WITH IT!!'**_

"Ohhh, you're crying even harder now……don't you like not being able to see me? It's for the best, you know…would you really want to watch me slice through all the muscles and tendons and the blood vessels in your wrist? I don't think you would…see, I'm doing you a favour……don't squirm so, Legolas ,stop wailing; it won't prevent the inevitable…don't be so afraid…"

"**PLEASE!! DON'T DO IT, PLEASE! Saes, ****daro****…**_**please**_**………WHY?!?!"**

"Because I want to."

………………

"There. Now that's something to cry about now, isn't it? Cry some more for me…Scream louder! I want to hear your pain, brat, I want to _see_ it…go on…_writhe_…! That's it…"

"Come now; did you really think that I would be gentle? And I hate to tell you but it was rather pointless of you complying with my wishes because I would have gotten what I wanted regardless of what choice you made and those other unfortunate brats are still going to suffer the same as you. After all, I have a _very _notorious reputation to live up to."

"I don't think you're even registering that I'm speaking; you're in too much _agony_ to take any notice. How tragic. It's too bad that this is only the beginning. I've got something that's far more painful in store for you, especially to the spirit…"

_**AN: So, I hope that section wasn't impossibly difficult to grasp; it was a way of promoting imagination, if you like. I wanted you to visualise the scene without it being explained. Another main reason is because I wanted to give it a nostalgic feel, as though you were in Legolas' mind.**_

_**Feedback on that passage (both positive and negative if you like) will be much appreciated as it's something I've never tired before, or seen before for that matter. **_

_**And it was the devil to write, too. ;)**_

_**Just in case you're wondering: Saes means please and daro, stop. **_

"Legolas …?!"

He looked up, dragged (perhaps mercifully) from the hideous reminiscence of what Jarvek had put him through.

The scarlet stain said it all as clear as crystal.

Too clear.

Legolas found the strength to bury his head into his shoulder.

Tyrilden was forced onwards past the door by the iron glove against his back.

King Thranduil sank back down onto his throne. The hubbub of noise born from shock still hadn't subsided in the great hall of the Elven-King. The parchment slid silently out of his hand and fluttered down onto the ground.

Stained.

Stained with blood.

His son's blood.

Silithion knelt down and picked up the macabre note, no one paying him any notice as the tumult grew.

He let it fall down to the stone ground again and backed away, his eyes never leaving the inscription. The prince turned and strode to the great door. He all but ran through it and down the cold corridor.

He thought he might be ill.

"Silithion--!" Isilihir grabbed his brother by the shoulders and shook him, moments after he had come running straight into him, his face as white as snow. "What the hell's—"

"They've got him; they've got Legolas."

"What? Who? What are you talking about?!" Isilihir was nothing short of shocked as Silithion clung onto his shirt and buried his head into his shoulder – the days in which Silithion had gone to eldest brother for consolation were long gone.

"Sili, what happened?"

"The Nazgul. They got him. They have Legolas."

Isilihir stood dumbfounded as Silithion continued to lean on him. It was incomprehensible. They stood like that for some time, each one's arms around the other.

Isilihir glanced up with troubled eyes as he sensed another presence in the hall.

Raedian's gaze went cold. He hadn't pardoned Isilihir for what he had done, although his brother had tried to ask for it several times. He didn't deserve it. He never would do.

His iced gaze travelled downwards, finding the form that was crying silently into his 'brother's' shoulder.

"Silithion." Raedian moved forwards.

Upon hearing his younger brother, Silithion straightened up and turned around.

Raedian stopped in his tracks.

"The Nazgul have Legolas."

Raedian looked back up at Isilihir, a strange compilation of emotions flitting across his fair face. Both stood stock-still. The seconds ticked by giving time for the revelation to fully sink in.

And then it was as though all the pent up emotions both brothers had been holding inside themselves came melting out onto the floor that lay between them and before either knew it they had caught each other in a fierce embrace.

"It's Legolas, isn't it?" Huirlith made his presence known, as he walked towards the huddled lamenters.

Silithion nodded.

"Dol Guldur."

Hmmm…that was…dark? ^^;;

Review if you please – feedback's always a help.


	10. Through the First Age

_**This chapter is purely Silmarillion based rather than LOTR based, just to let you know. **__**And it's also an extreme AU :)**_

* * *

Huirlith rested his head on his arms, dropping his quill down on the table. The letter could wait; right now all he wished for was to sleep for a week straight, heedless of any 'imperative' duties he had to perform as a royal. It was stuffy, humid and thoroughly uncomfortable – not the ideal conditions for writing a tedious letter in reply to a tedious matter raised by a tedious person…

Stretching out of his sluggish position he stood up and strode across his study. His servants shuffled their feet as they watched their Lord attempt to work out how to open a window. Huirlith had never quite become adept at ordering others to do the menial things for him. Princes did not stand on top of chairs (fully clad in silk, leather, and nobody dared guess how much gold) attempting to pry open stubborn windows, and especially not when it was mid-November in Mirkwood and consequently not all that humid and stuffy at all.

"Your Highness?" The servants edged closer towards the fire.

"Yes?" Huirlith asked unpretentiously, glancing over his shoulder at the anxious and slightly perplexed looking elves.

It was really quite a sight; a noble born son of a king standing now upon a table that was creaking ominously with the effort of holding him up along with the extra and profoundly accountable weight of his garments. If that was not enough, said prince was for all but breaking both window and severely bent spoon being used to lift up the handle that would open that confounded window and let rain, hail, snow and the valar only knew what else come blasting in on top of them all.

"Begging your pardon, sir…the table…" It was all the poor fellow could think to say. The table creaked louder than ever as if to enforce the servant's point. Huirlith stopped what he was doing (which for the sake of interest was using a dagger to unstick the cursed handle; or unstick his fingers from his hand as the servants evidently thought more likely).

It was in this split second of absurd silence that Huirlith's hand slipped causing the dagger to go spinning into the air, the servants only just ducking in time as it sailed merrily towards them. An almighty crack sounded as half of the window pane fell off onto the table which creaked it's loudest yet, and as if this was not bad enough, none other than King Thranduil marched through the door.

"Good morning, Father."

"It's six o'clock in the evening, Huirlith."

"Time does fly…"

A stifled cough sounded from the servants' direction.

"Huirlith…" Thranduil took in the scene before him: the mystified servants, several of whom were still on the floor after dodging the flying dagger which was now embedded in a painting, the close to breaking window, his absolute nutcase of a son standing on top of - "…the table…"

The guards who had witnessed the whole scenario simply looked at each other.

Huirlith got off the unfortunate item of furniture (to the general relief of the room) and straightened his clothes as if nothing could have been more normal. Although to his mind nothing probably was more normal.

"So father, what brings you here?"

A moments silence followed. Every eye turned to look at the king – whose brow was slowly furrowing.

"I seem to have forgotten."

'_All in a days work,'_ thought the servants.

With a deafening smash, the window shattered and in flew a torrent of snow – straight into the King's face.

"Ah, the window's opened!" Huirlith stuck his head out of it, breathing in deeply. Behind him, the servants rushed to save the various ornaments and precious items that Huirlith loved to horde from being blown off their stands by the sudden gush of wind. The table, having other ideas, collapsed, adding to the commotion.

Raedian, who had been forced to listen to the events due to his elvish ears (or perhaps he was simply tuned into these things just so he could find something to howl at) poked his head around the door, took one look around, glared at Huirlith, who was still hanging out of the window, and simply said in his usual egotistical manner, "You're a fool, Huirlith." Astoundingly, his arsenal of highly offensive insults had seemingly deserted him. Glancing at Thranduil, he added, "Father, you appear to have snow on your face." With that, he slammed the door closed, toppling a china vase from its precarious position. The servants sighed.

Thranduil simply muttered an exasperated, "Thank you," looking ruefully at Huirlith, who had now taken to singing out of the window.

***

The library in Mirkwood's palace was truly quite remarkable. Like most Sindarin architecture rather than emitting a homely feel it projected an aura of grand mystery. It was an airy atmosphere, almost cold in a way, with its grey and white marbled floors and walls, high arched ceilings and ivy covered shelves. But yet although it was not as welcoming as Elrond's library in Imladris, it still retained that infinite wisdom and serenity that all elvish dwellings possessed.

The librarian, unaccustomed to clattering in his usually soundless abode, made his way down through the many walls of books and cleared his throat as the younger elf scored frantically through yet another row of timeless volumes.

"My Lord Prince; what do you look for?"

Huirlith sighed, dusting a particularly ancient looking manuscript and peering at the faded cover. "A book on Nandorian… dialect, perhaps…?" He pushed the book back onto the shelf.

The librarian frowned slightly. "Might I be so bold as to ask why, sir?"

"I need to check a particular letter..."

"Which letter?" The librarian looked mildly confused as to why his prince seemed so desperate to check a single letter of an alphabet long disregareded.

"E" He turned to look at the silver-haired elf. "The Nandorians; how did they draw their Es?"

"With a line through the centre, Lord…"

With no further ado bar a hasty thanks, Huirlith left the majestic library, leaving the thoroughly bewildered librarian to put the disregarded books back into their places.

Huirlith laid down the letter on the table and examined it – the fact that it had been written in his brother's blood threatened to turn his stomach slightly, but this was important.

Yes, definitely; those Es had a line through them. It was not accidental or the product of messy handwriting as he had at first assumed – that was a purposeful line.

Huirlith knelt over the table with his hands on either side; contemplating.

This single fact changed a lot of things.

"Lord! Fortarthin, sir!" Huirlith ran down the marbled corridor, his voice echoing against the great ceiling.

Fortarthin stopped in his tracks.

"Prince Huirlith," He acknowledged, without turning around.

"I need to talk to you…"

"I rather gathered."

Huirlith ignored the somewhat supercilious remark.

"It's about…Jarvek. In relation to Legolas." Huirlith held onto his breath and hoped the elder and infamously forthright elf would take him seriously.

Fortarthin turned around.

"Why Jarvek?" His tone was as crisp as his eyes.

Huirlith studied Fortarthin's face before replying – scepticism (so he knew what he was about to propose) but not of a mocking kind, or so he thought. "The letter, it may not have been written by the Nazgul."

"Well, that is rather conspicuous to say," Fortarthin answered irritably, starting to walk away as though he could not be bothered to hear the rest of his Prince's desperate theory. "I am surprised to hear that sort of inanity coming from you."

Huirlith stared at Fortarthin's back. Stared, and began to laugh. "Do you take me for a fool, elf?" he called out towards Fortarthin. The 'elf' in question came to a halt. "Do you honestly think I would bother to come and find you, and hence endure your snide and belligerent comments without good cause? I appear to waste my time." It was rare that quiet, optimistic and cheery Huirlith snapped, but Fortarthin had successfully managed to push him to that point. For a moment Huirlith thought that in his anger he had gone too far, but Fortarthin made no move. Instead it was his turn to laugh.

"I do not like people who beat about the bush." He looked down at the younger elf, knowing that he was perfectly understood.

"Truly, but I do not care for what you like or dislike," Huirlith replied brusquely, forcing himself to stay cool – yes, this elf; his father's most trusted advisor in nearly everything, was ridiculing him to say the least, a fact that was especially frustrating considering the matter at hand.

Fortarthin smiled; almost wryly. "I like that in you, Huirlith: that icy disdain which only graces your temperament when you are in absolute earnest – hell-bent, as it were." Fortarthin's face was unreadable.

"I always believed you to be a blatant speaker. Instead I find a hypocrite." Huirlith was being played about with and he knew it.

"Indeed. But some things take subtlety to find out. Your anger tells me that you did not come here with some childish whim to try and further twist the cords of this mystery, but that you, with all your remarkable and still often discredited brains, truly believe that Jarvek has Legolas. And because of that anger and those brains I know that what you have to say is quite likely the infallible truth."

Huirlith found himself without a retort. To him, Fortarthin's logic was really quite illogical. But then again, he did not think that he was in the position to question it. Realising that he had been thoroughly bested, he simply muttered – "Epistemological nihilism…" musing over the ultimate question of perception, or then again perception itself could simply be a perception, but then where was the truth unless it came from your mind, but that would be a 'self-truth' and not necessarily the actual truth, so what was it really unless it came from Eru and he alone could understand it, but even Eru did not at first recognise the depravity of Morgoth's mind during the music of the Ainur…and therefore either he chose to let the malignancy of that particular theme come about or he simply did not have the ability to perceive the truth about Morgoth and therefore did not understand truth…so what then _was_ truth… If anything at all?

Fortarthin simply took the somewhat dazed looking Huirlith gently by the arm as though leading one suffering from battle-shock and directed him through the nearest door, which happened to be the door of a closet.

"It's rather cramped, but here at least we can talk without being disturbed." He put the lantern he had lifted from the main corridor onto one of the dusty shelves, creating an eerie and blue tinted glow. "Now…if you have quite finished daydreaming about epistemological nihilism - Jarvek. Or do I have to physically shake you to bring you back to this particular plane of Ea?"

"Jarvek…Oh, Jarvek…yes." Fortarthin raised an eyebrow. Huirlith looked at Fortarthin's exasperated face and for the first time ever felt himself blush at his absolute air headedness.

"The letter." Huirlith stopped for a moment. "Surely you spotted something…?"

"I have not actually been given the letter to read."

Rather than question the absurdity of this fact, Huirlith simply fished into his pocket and brought out the dank parchment. Without another word he passed it into Fortarthin's awaiting hand.

The master archer did not show any visible reaction to the writer's choice of ink, but simply read the contents of the letter with his usual, impassive expression in place.

"Ah." Fortarthin put the letter down. "Yes, Nandorian Es." Huirlith respected Fortarthin enough to wait for him to elaborate. "Indeed, the only known Nandorian around is Jarvek. But the question is of course what he would gain from this."

Huirlith waited.

"There are several possibilities, ones I am sure you have already thought of. This letter could easily be from Jarvek and have no connection to the Nazgul or Dol Guldur in any way. It could be from the Nazgul in an attempt to lead us astray, or in fact by any organisation or cult for the same purpose. It could be that Jarvek wants us to believe it to be him to lead us all into some other cunning scheme." Fortarthin sighed. "I am inclined to believe," he began after a long pause, "that it was simply a mistake and that in haste, or haughtiness he forgot himself and wrote down any Es without remembering that only the Nandor use the characteristic lines."

"Surely Jarvek would not make such a mistake?"

"Surely indeed, but he is only an elf like you or me at the end of it. Now, if those traitors in the trees we assumed existed really do exist, then this again points to Jarvek. It is more likely for an elf to serve an elf than to serve Sauron, and it has for long been known that Jarvek has a great multitude of elves under his command, whereas Sauron has only a meagre handful, if any. Traitors do not often work in pairs, Huirlith, or at least not successfully anyway. It is likely that there are many traitors to your father in this forest and all of them incognito. I would guess at a few hundred bare minimum."

Huirlith started. "A few hundred?!" he whispered incredulously, looking at the door of the closet and suddenly realising the reason why they were in a broom cupboard.

"Yes. The motives are plain – Jarvek means to attack Mirkwood from both the inside and out – getting a hold of Legolas ensures that he has leverage on the outside. Traitors on the inside ensure that if Thranduil wants to make a wrong move on Jarvek's chessboard then he can easily be held in place."

"You mean to say that some of my father's advisors could be traitors?"

"There is no 'could' be, Huirlith. They are. Jarvek is too smart not to have his men close to the king."

Huirlith sat silent. "Is Dol Guldur involved then or not? I thought Jarvek and Sauron did not make a habit of working together."

"No, they do not. But neither are they against the other. They are both servants of Morgoth, and it is the same evilness that drives them on. For that reason they do not openly oppose each other, but they are both ultimately going for the same goal – world supremacy. However, the fact that one of Jarvek's strongholds is only several days away from Dol Guldur suggests that they are still prepared to work together if it benefits the both of them."

"In this case the destruction of Mirkwood."

Fortarthin nodded.

Both elves remained quiet for several moments.

"Fortarthin, Jarvek always hated the Sindar above any other denomination of the Eldar – why? I've read different versions…"

Fortarthin rubbed his eyes. Huirlith could never remember a time in which Fortarthin had ever looked tired.

"He blamed King Thingol for his family's demise."

"Family – what, siblings—?"

"A wife, two sons and a daughter."

Huirlith stared.

"Yes, Jarvek was married once upon a time. He was not always the way he is now." There was a pause, and then – "Jarvek was among those of the Nandor who followed Denethor over the Misty Mountains and into Ossiriand. When Morgoth loosed his armies on Doriath and called on Denethor for help Jarvek and his sons were among those who answered, Jarvek being a great commander of the Nandor at that time. Of course, as you know, the first battle in the wars of Beleriand was disastrous for the Nandor. Jarvek's sons were killed and he himself captured by Morgoth. It is not known how Morgoth managed to persuade Jarvek to join his ranks willingly, but those of us who were alive at that period believe that Morgoth must have found a way to prove to Jarvek that it was entirely Thingol's fault that his sons were killed and not his. Unnecessary sacrifice perhaps…But Jarvek had always been one of great ambition; Morgoth clearly utilised this and persuaded him that reward for ambition lay wholly with the dark side. At any rate, Jarvek came back to the Nandor, spinning a tale of how he escaped, thus entwining many of his enamoured followers in Morgoth's net. He then followed those of the Nandor who went to dwell in Doriath – or led as I think more likely." Fortarthin stopped and looked at Huirlith. "It was Jarvek who caused the downfall of Doriath. He was the one who gave Thingol the idea of getting the dwarves to set the Silmarillion in a necklace. He supposedly knew that being dwarves they would become enamoured by their work and claim it as their own. It cost Thingol his life. Again, it was he who persuaded Dior to keep possession of the necklace thus enraging the sons of Feanor and causing them to attack Doriath. Some even say that it was not Celegorm who slew Dior, but Jarvek, and that he also slew Celegorm, just out of spite. It is possible; possible even that he slew Curufin and Caranthir also – he always went for the high rankers. But regardless, during the fall of Doriath Jarvek ran his sword through both the Sindar and the Noldor alike."

"Why is none of this recorded?" Huirlith looked Fortarthin in the eye.

"Much in this world is not recorded, but moreover, I did not witness all that I have just spoke of, some of it was through word of mouth. I witnessed the first battle of Beleriand and Jarvek's capture. I witnessed his persuasion of Thingol concerning the necklace – I was there to oppose it. I witnessed him slay both sides in Doriath, but as to his real motives and alliances I am unaware of and go only by tales and allegations. These accounts were recorded in many of the books of the first age, but they were nearly all lost in the sinking of Beleriand, and historians thereafter liked to put a cleaner face on our history already so marred by the oath of Feanor – nobody liked to admit that at one time we accepted, listened to and for many, loved one of our now greatest enemies, so they simply wrote the real truth behind Jarvek out of history."

Huirlith breathed in. "Why did you not re-write what was lost?"

Fortarthin smiled. "Sometimes it is better to keep things locked away than let them devour the world."

Huirlith let it lie. "You mentioned a wife and daughter…"

"His daughter was allegedly raped by a Sinda and she faded during the time he was being held by Morgoth, another reason why he hates us so much, and by the time he was set free his wife had wasted away from the grief of losing all her children, and so she thought, her husband." Fortarthin looked at the dust covering one of the unused brooms at his feet. "Perhaps if she had lived things would have been different..." He tore his eyes away from the broom and instead locked onto Huirlith's, which were blazing bright in the dullness of the tiny room. "But alas, it is no good wishing for things that were not and cannot ever be."

"There's something else…" Huirlith began.

Fortarthin inclined his head slightly.

"When we discovered the slain elves there were two things that were just not right – the frozen expressions on their faces and the blades, or lack of."

"Elaborate." Fortarthin cared not that he was talking to a prince.

"The looks on several of the elves faces were those of hatred. The others held looks of surprise. These surprised ones all had sword wounds alone. The malicious ones, arrow wounds alone. And it was these ones; five of them I believe who had no blades on them."

Fortarthin looked at him strangely. "Why did you not mention this at the time?"

Huirlith started nervously. "I don't know…I just thought it was coincidence - because you hadn't mentioned it," he added hurriedly, his heart starting to pound.

Fortarthin cursed. Huirlith subconsciously edged back further into the cupboard. Fortarthin swore again. A long silence ensued in which only heartbeats could be heard.

"Get yourself into that library and find something; anything on Jarvek having supernatural abilities – witchcraft, necromancy; the ability to turn a unit of warriors on another unit regardless of allegiance. Or even something about the Nazgul being able to do that!" All this was said in an undertone but furious hiss.

As Huirlith made to leave the cupboard in haste, he instead found himself yanked back by his shirt.

"Be careful. We do not know who in this palace is a traitor and who is not and if any of them get even a whiff of suspicion – including that librarian– then I believe the next time I will be seeing you is with a slit throat or more likely never again as you will be paying Jarvek a visit."

Huirlith nodded curtly; such talk did not daunt a prince of the Sindar, but at the same time he was not naïve to the seriousness of the situation.

Huirlith glanced out of the library window. Dawn, and still no luck. Fortarthin had come to his rescue concerning the librarian and had managed to 'dispose' of him, in his own words. Huirlith decided that whatever Fortarthin's idea of 'disposed' was, it did not bode well for the librarian, although he could not complain.

He yawned, but giving up was not an option – he had already potentially caused the downfall of his nation with his stupidity and he was going to try and atone for that at whatever cost – a prince's duty. Resting his head on a pile of books he flicked through another, in an attempt at finding anything vaguely useful. Minutes crawled by as the sun crawled her way into the heights of the sky.

Huirlith sat up with a jolt and forced his eyes to focus on the scrawled and faded script – _'If only Morgoth had not bestowed his own powers on that cursed Nandorian fiend then we may not have lost the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The vile creature cut off Fingon…'_ from here on it was illegible and far too faded from the battering of thousands of years.

Huirlith read and re-read the passage. The 'Nandorian fiend' could only of course be Jarvek. But the 'vile creature' could easily have been the balrog, who of course did cut Fingon off. Again, it appeared as Fortarthin had said that Jarvek was written out of history. In all the numerous accounts Huirlith had read of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, all said that it was simply Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs and his forces that had drove apart Hurin, Turgon and Fingon. There was no account of Jarvek ever being a part of it – and who then was this speaker who had apparently witnessed it? Turgon most likely, or possibly Maedhros at having been informed of the slaying of his friend.

But regardless of who wrote it, it still did not help matters; indeed, Huirlith now knew that Jarvek did have powers but what they were and how he utilised them were different matters completely.

Huirlith ran his eyes over the illegible section for a last time, deciding that it definitely was written by Maedhros – no person could write that messily unless they were writing with their wrong hand, which of course Maedhros would have been doing at that point. His eyes caught a small scribble at the bottom of the page, clearly written long after the original script.

_See page 247. _

He hastily flicked through the tattered and thin sheets, but upon arriving at page 247 he found himself quite possibly even more confused:

_I who can walk as the wraith,_

_Yet untracked by those fallen Lords of Men._

_I who can fly over time with the wings of a riddle;_

_Incarnate, still be._

_Tulkas be but an equal;_

_None on earth to match mine._

_All enemies to flee_

_But turn not on me._

_Jaeredh_

Huirlith jumped up to go and find Fortarthin, but fate had other ideas.

"Your Highness!"

"Please, Lord Direnal, I'm rather busy…" But the haughty Lord would not be dissuaded so easily.

"Three horses have been found – they have been identified as belonging to members of Prince Legolas' war-band."

Turing aside the necessity of speaking to Fortarthin, Huirlith ran alongside the knight and out into the courtyard, where indeed three skittish and weather-beaten horses stood. Huirlith walked up slowly to the nearest one; it whinnied softly but did not move. Gently, he touched it's soft head. Confident that Huirlith was not a source of danger, the stallion moved in closer to him and stood contentedly as he stroked his mane. Huirlith gave the horse one last pat and went to talk to the finders of the horses. But as he made to do so he noticed that his hand had come away from the horse dyed red.

"This horse in injured," he announced, wiping the blood of his hand. As he looked down at the smeared scarlet substance, he felt his stomach tighten slightly as a premonitory realisation hit him.

"My Lord, I believe that is elven blood." His fears were confirmed.

"This mare also has blood on her," another called.

"Where were the horses found?" Huirlith asked quietly.

"Just several yards from here sir, at the foot of the steps."

"And no riders?"

"No riders, sir."

"Who were the riders identified as?"

"Opherion son of Lenidh, Nierwine son of Oriand and Fernendir son of Halion."

"Take the horses to the stables, find Lord Fortarthin, and if it has not already been done: inform the king."

"Yes, sir."

Huirlith left the elves to follow his orders and clear dismissal. Instead of going back into the palace he drew out a handkerchief and tore it into two. Taking one half he ran it over the blood on the first horse, and with the second part, took a swab of the blood on the other horse. Huirlith put the evidence back in his pocket, but rather than go in the direction of the palace he went in the direction of the government headquarters after saddling up his horse and obtaining an obligatory bodyguard.

The government buildings lay directly east of the palace. Unlike most of the roads in Mirkwood which were commonly just flattened and smoothed earthen paths, the roads leading to and from the palace were of stone slabs, making it easier for Huirlith to ride in haste.

***

Huirlith and his company came to a halt outside the gates of the headquarters. The walls of the parameter were pure white covered with engravings of leaves and boughs entwined about banners bearing the royal insignia. Some of the engravings were of warriors on horseback, others more serene – a lady of great beauty and sorrow weaving a cloak out of her hair to conceal herself was one such, but all depicted a story in Sindarin history.

The gate itself was wrought of iron, both doors twisted to bear the resemblance of two great oak trees, but the gate was not weakened by the intricate design.

The guards stood to attention as their Prince approached; he inclined his head slightly to acknowledge them.

"I seek Lord Raeorm." The guards did not ask why, but simply admitted him entrance; Lord Raeorm was the prime initiator of what went on behind the scenes of Legolas' rescue mission, which was steadily becoming more inclined towards a mystery mission.

Huirlith passed through the mighty doors and into the courtyard. A fountain stood at the centre with a statue of Luthien and Beren standing proud amidst the flowing water. Other statues lined the edges of the open space – of Dior, Melian and Thingol, and even ones of Huan and Turin, all entangled in the history of the Sindar. Around the courtyard lay several buildings, wall to wall with arches at their bases which faced out to where Huirlith stood. Ivy covered the arches and the walls, doors and passages that lay behind them. It was through the alleyway directly opposite the gate that Huirlith went through.

He strode out into an even greater courtyard, but none the less grand. This one was far larger, but off the same layout except that in the centre there was a large plinth surrounded by an array of small trees and bright flowers. On that plinth stood a memorial to those of Mirkwood who fell during the siege of Mordor at Dagorlad. The memorial was carved in likeness of the three armed forces in Mirkwood's army: a swordsmen standing tall, his sword raised, a spearman crouched low as though awaiting an oncoming charge and an archer in the centre, bow at the ready, representing those who fell at that battle belonging to the profession Mirkwood was most renowned for.

Huirlith took the path leading around the gravelled square and entered under one of the roofed porches. At the end of the walkway there was a staircase and it was up this that the prince went, his guard in tow. The staircase led up to a small hallway which had no wall on the side opposite the stairs but from which there was a marvellous view of the gardens behind the headquarters. There was an oaken door adjacent to the staircase, flanked by a pair of armed guards.

"Lord Raeorm," stated Huirlith patently.

"He is not available, My Prince," one of the warriors began courteously. "If you would be able to wait---"

"I am sorry to say that I am not able to wait," came the curt reply, taking the guards aback slightly – yes, he was a prince and therefore expected to act so haughtily, but this particular prince did not make a habit of it. The guards were unsure of what to say.

They did not have to say anything however, for Lord Raeorm suddenly appeared at the doorway. "Is something the matter, My Prince?"

Huirlith glanced at the sheepish and somewhat perplexed looking guards. "I was informed that you were not currently available, Lord."

"The matters were addressed quicker than first anticipated – I apologise for any misunderstandings," he added, almost amusedly, as he took in the expression on the guard's faces. "Do come in, Your Highness, although I was unaware that you were planning a visit, so things perhaps are not in the best of order."

Huirlith smiled slightly at the mess of letters and ink on the table in the centre of the breezy room. "That is quite alright."

"Through here, Lord."

Huirlith sat down on the chair that was offered to him. "I came here to ask you a favour." Huirlith felt his heart start to race ever so slightly as the knowledge that one wrong move may cost him his life entered his realisation.

"I am at your service, Your Highness." Lord Raeorm knew how to flatter but Huirlith was ever mindful of Fortarthin's advice.

Huirlith swallowed inconspicuously, looking into the rainwater basin in the centre of the room, the sunlight from the open square in the roof above turning the water orange. He was a prince; all of his life he had spent being taught how to deal with these sort of situations. But things always were easier said than done. Putting on a perfect façade of innocence, he began.

"There were several horses discovered at the palace courtyard roughly about two hours ago. Two had elvish blood on them." He felt his heart jolt against his ribcage as he became further dragged into his own guile, but he had spent too many years practising this art to perfection for his face to portray it. "You recall that Lord Fortarthin spoke to the council of the alleged existence of traitors through the incongruous arrows and the blood that was found on the trees?"

Raeorm nodded, face unreadable.

"There were off duty guards also found dead near to the site of that massacre."

"Why was I not informed?" the spontaneous and almost harsh question was asked.

"It was only discovered last night - my father is currently holding a council in the great hall as we speak and all people imperative for such information to be pronounced are at that council. He intended to inform you and other such members of the government either tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. Upon discovering the horses I believed that you needed to know immediately." He paused and looked at Raeorm, ensuring he had his full attention. "The horses were identified as belonging to the guards. It is possible that if the traitor theory is correct then they were the ones who slew the guards – perhaps they were 'in the way'. But if that is the case then it is possible that the blood found on the horses will match that which was found on the leaves where the traitors supposedly hid."

Raeorm was silent for several moments, as though digesting the information. Huirlith did not like the silence and was forced to refrain from shuffling slightly.

Raeorm finally spoke. "The favour you asked of me – to see the blood samples." It was not a question. Huirlith nodded once.

"Then that is a favour I can do for you, Your Highness." He got up and proceeded to lead Huirlith out of his quarters and back into the open hallway. Huirlith's guards were waiting outside, but had no intention of following – they were accustomed to letting their prince go about his own business in this fiercely protected building, but this time however that was not their role. Huirlith gave a slight motion of his head indicating that they should follow. Tergiol, his head bodyguard, noticed the unusual command and was instantly, although discreetly on guard. Raeorm who was in front, if he noticed did not comment on the entourage. The governor led them back into the court and then off down a set of steps where at the bottom he proceeded to unlock a heavy door.

"Over in that corner, Lord." Raeorm bowed slightly and waited outside. Tergiol caught his prince's gaze briefly. Huirlith looked away with a tiny shake of his head. His guard waited outside. The door of the basement shut with a reverberating clang.

Huirlith walked over to the candlelit area he had been directed towards. Searching through the dismal bottles he finally found what he was looking for – "Blood found on leaf, 'traitors' 25th November," he read out softly. Unscrewing the lid he took out the leaf. He then crossed the room and went through one of the adjacent doors. Climbing up the stairs two at a time he came into the hound's enclosure, closing the door behind him. He went over to one of the specially trained bloodhounds that was lounging in the nearest corner. As he approached, the dog sat up and began to wag its tail sensing a job at hand. Holding out the leaf, he let the dog have a good sniff. Then taking it away and replacing it with the swab he had taken from one of the horses, he let it sniff a second time. The dog barked telling Huirlith that this blood was from the same person. Huirlith smiled to himself and presented the swab from the second horse. The dog sniffed eagerly at the small bit of cloth. Huirlith felt his heart speed up; if this also was a match then his theory was correct. The dog barked again. Huirlith smiled a second time and patted the dog who in return licked his hand. Then getting up he returned into the basement and went back up the stairs to where Raeorm and his guard awaited him.

"Any joy, My Prince?" Asked Raeorm.

"No, Lord – no joy."

***

Huirlith arrived back at the palace as it was getting dark. Leaving the stable hands to deal with his horse he walked swiftly into the palace and to where Fortarthin should have been.

"Tergiol, could you ask around for Fortarthin?"

"Certainly, but Huirlith: just what exactly is going on?"

Huirlith looked in the next doorway, hoping to find his quarry. "I'll explain when Fortarthin arrives," he answered moving unto the next door.

Tergiol looked unconvinced. Coming to halt and turning around, Huirlith added, "I promise. I can't explain it's long and unsafe to say here – it involves Jarvek, Legolas and the potential downfall of Mirkwood."

"What?!" His bodyguard looked him as though his air-headedness may just have evolved into pure insanity.

"I can't explain, not here, please! Just find Fortarthin and be quick! Tell him come to my quarters and come yourself if you want the full explanation!"

Tergiol swallowed the multiple questions that were on his tongue and sped off to find Fortarthin and hopefully some answers.

Huirlith entered his chambers and flopped onto his bed. Feeling something stick into his pocket he pulled out the copy he had taken of the poem written by Jaeredh, who he knew to be Jarvek – Jaeredh was his proper name in the elvish tongue. Jarvek was just the harsher sounding name he had taken on when the world had started to fear him.

"My Prince, the King has need of your presence in the great hall."

Huirlith looked up as Kethiron entered into his room and put the note on his bedside table.

Kethiron brought his eyes back up to Huirlith's face after a moments pause. "Lord, are you well?"

"What? Yes, quite well – why?" Huirlith inquired uncertainly at the frown on the physician's face.

"You look worn Lord, you should rest."

"What about the council?"

"Your Highness, you are in no fit state to be at a council."

"But I feel fine!"

"Yes, but you do not look it."

"But how can I---"

"My Lord, I am a physician. I think I know when somebody looks well and when somebody looks like they might drop. You were seen heading towards the government headquarters – perhaps it was whatever issue you addressed there?" suggested Kethiron concernedly.

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, something has done this – were you not on many missions recently? With the extra councils your father has been holding: Prince Isilihir has had to hold the usual councils, Raedian was in the infirmary throughout most of it and you and Prince Silithion have been taking on all the matters of the army. It stands to sense that you are fatigued," he finished.

"Fatigued?" Huirlith looked up, with a slightly stupefied look on his face.

"Yes, fatigued," Kethiron repeated with a 'healer's only' patience.

"Well, what do I do about the council?" When he thought about it he did feel quite exhausted, the previous few days were stressful ones to say the least - a sleepless night in the library and weaving a plausible set of lies for a lead governor in the state amongst finding out that Jarvek was in the process of organising an attack on Mirkwood with the help of his father's own advisors; yes he was tired.

"I will deal with that – your brother Silithion is excused; I believe they cannot get him out of bed, so I see no reason why you should have to go."

"But—"

"No buts," he said sternly over the protests. "Wait here."

"Where—?"

But the healer had gone. Huirlith sat somewhat perplexed. Where was Fortarthin and what if Kethiron came back when he and Tergiol arrived – how would that be explained? Huirlith had to admit that his head was starting to hurt. What about his father? He needed to be told about all of this but not in front of a whole council. What if Jarvek's plans were already in full swing – what if Mirkwood fell…?"

"Here, drink this, it will make you feel a bit better." Kethiron, having returned passed Huirlith a decanter. The prince, who's mind was still reeling with the thought of what would happen if Jarvek's plans succeeded, did not ask what the drink was. He simply took it and downed it in one. Kethiron took the cup back out of his hand, and made to leave the room.

"Where is Huirlith, Kethiron?" Thranduil was in no mood for foolishness.

"Lord, he is not fit for council – he is unwell from what I believe to be simply severe fatigue."

"Fatigue? From what?" the king snapped.

"Lord, forgive me but he has been under quite a lot of stress recently – perhaps that is the cause?" Another council member put forward.

"That is what I presumed," Kethiron asserted.

Thranduil said nothing. Fortarthin however looked unconvinced and more than a little consternated.

Lord Ferdinis felt the lump of scrunched up paper in his hand and glanced at Kethiron as he left the hall. Procedures had barely began again when for a second time the door was swung open and this time Tergiol was admitted.

"What is the cause of this intrusion?" ordered Thranduil, starting to become seriously irked.

"My King, I have need to speak to Lord Fortarthin."

"And what reason do you deem urgent enough to take him out of this council?"

"Lord, it is in relation to an incident at the archery barracks."

"What has happened?" Thranduil asked, almost tiredly.

"I am clearly needed, Lord. I will try and be quick." Fortarthin rose from his seat and followed Tergiol out of the chamber, saving Tergiol from having to answer his currently foul tempered king.

"What has happened?" asked Fortarthin.

"Nothing in relation to archery, rather: Huirlith."

Fortarthin stopped. "What has happened?" he asked again, this time urgently.

"I am wondering the same thing myself – I have only had a brief outline. If I say 'Jarvek'" he added in an undertone, "I am sure you understand."

Fortarthin nodded. "Where are we meeting him? His chambers?"

"Yes."

Fortarthin knocked. "Huirlith?" No answer. "Huirlith?" Again, silence. "I did not like that fatigue theory of Kethiron's…" he murmured, trepidation creeping into his countenance.

"What theory? Fortarthin, what is going on?!"

Fortarthin opened the door, caring no longer for courtesy. However, he did not expect to see Huirlith lying on his bed with his back to them. Apparently he was asleep.

Fortarthin raised an eyebrow at his Lord's inauspicious behaviour. Tergiol had not been appointed as Huirlith's protector for no good reason. Walking swiftly over to the bed he reached out and turned him over so he was facing them. His eyes were closed.

"Kethiron has drugged him," Fortarthin certified quietly. Tergiol's eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

"We need to move him," stated Fortarthin. "They might not be done here."

Tergiol did not bother asking who 'they' were, but Huirlith's brief overview was beginning to look all the more ominous. "Where to?" he inquired – the bed seemed the best place for the unconscious prince, but if they needed to get him out of sight…

"The bath," Fortarthin said without second thought. "No one would think to look for him there."

It seemed like a plausible idea to Tergiol. He lifted the limp body off the bed and carried Huirlith into the bathroom. He laid him in the bath as carefully as he could. Fortarthin was already standing at the door of the chambers when he returned. "Have you got a key so we can lock this place up?" Tergiol nodded and brought one out.

"Shouldn't we write a note or something, in case he wakes up and finds himself in a bath tub with the doors to his chambers locked from the outside?"

"He won't be waking up; Kethiron will have made sure of that," Fortarthin answered disdainfully. "Kethiron passed a note to Ferdinis – we need to find out what that note was. It may have been connected to why Kethiron drugged him in the first place – he must have found out something."

"How do you mean to get it off him? Confrontation?"

Fortarthin nodded.

"And what about an explanation of what is going on?" Tergiol asked impatiently, ire rising.

Fortarthin would have smiled in any other situation. "I hope I find you loyal to your king, Tergiol?"

"Unadulterated loyalty, I assure you."

***

Fortarthin took his seat again at the great conferencing table.

"Fortarthin, we have just agreed that we should hold back on any imminent siege on Dol Guldur and rather focus on defence, do you agree with the motion?" Thranduil looked at him questioningly.

"I do."

"Motion passed. Court adjourned. " The suddenness of the dismissal brought the council back to earth with a jolt. It was a well known fact that when a council was adjourned in haste, King Thranduil was not in a content state of mind. But who could blame him? For he had just abandoned nearly every hope there was of rescuing his son.

Fortarthin, who would generally have gone after the quickly exiting king to provide him with some form of solace instead went after Ferdinis after waiting for everyone else to leave and go about their own business.

"Lord, may I talk to you?"

"What about?" The younger elf stopped in his tracks.

"Somewhere private, if you please?"

"If you wish." Fortarthin took note of the terseness of his tone.

Fortarthin led him down a corridor to the left on the hall. A servant walked down it with a pile of towels. Fortarthin did not speak until the elf's footsteps had long gone out of hearing.

"I wished to talk to you of Prince Huirlith."

Ferdinis stiffened ever so slightly; Fortarthin missed nothing.

"I know no more of his situation than you, Lord Fortarthin." Fortarthin smiled at the wariness with which the words were chosen. Ferdinis caught the smile and shuffled slightly.

"Truly? What of the note Kethiron gave to you?"

"What note?"

"Do not play dumb with me, Lord Ferdinis." The quiet threat sounded all the more foreboding in the empty passage.

"I do not play dumb."

Ferdinis breathed in sharply as Fortarthin pushed him against the wall, hands gripping his collar. "The note."

"There – was – no – note!"

"I think there was."

Ferdinis looked at the ground. He would not have been surprised if he felt himself lifted off the ground by his shirt. But he made no answer.

Fortarthin's patience had run out. He made a lunge for Ferdinis' pocket, in which he hoped the note was hiding. The two elves hit the floor in a frenzy of fists, but Ferdinis was no match for Fortarthin and in only a matter of seconds Fortarthin was back on his feet with the parchment in his hand. Ferdinis swore at him and wiped his bleeding mouth against his sleeve.

"How will this serve your place at the king's right hand?" he sneered, keeping his distance.

"The fact that I am at the 'king's right hand', as you so aptly put it, is the reason that this will serve me."

Fortarthin made to turn away, Ferdinis spotted his chance and made to lunge at him but Tergiol, who had made his timely appearance around the corner with a set of guards, intervened.

"You won't get away with this!!!" Howled Ferdinis as he was dragged away.

"Neither will you," came that characteristically cool drawl from down the corridor.

Fortarthin walked on down the deserted hall and away from the sound of Ferdinis' protests. Stepping inside an alcove in the wall in case anyone who may give him grief would see, he opened the note and read it:

_Huirlith knows about Jarvek. _

_He will start to piece together the traitors and Legolas' capture; he's too clever not to. I found this in his bedroom - the prime reason why I drugged him: _

With the note was a hurriedly scrawled poem on a piece of crumpled parchment:

_I who can walk as the wraith,_

_Yet untracked by those fallen Lords of Men._

_I who can fly over time with the wings of a riddle;_

_Incarnate, still be._

_Tulkas be but an equal;_

_None on earth to match mine._

_All enemies to flee_

_But turn not on me._

_- Jaeredh_

Fortarthin knew just the person to ask help from.

He attached the letter to the bird, knowing that it would find the addressee.

With that he all but ran to Thranduil's quarters.

There was no time to waste.

* * *

yeah…um…long delay…5 months exactly…ah well!! I gave you a long one!


	11. A Second Captive

**Another chapter…an epic fail, but alas – who cares?! **

**I'm supposed to be doing my GCSE revision. I am officially about to flunk my entire life through procrastination and sloth; oh, sweet ode to joy. Well, life goes on as they say. **

**In other words: I don't know what the heck I'm doing with mine :) **

**I had this strange idea yesterday that I would teach myself Spanish and then go to Mexico to teach English when I'm 21…whilst living in Corpus Christi on the weekends. Me and my oh-so-English accent in Corpus Christi…blimey. **

**I do scare myself. Even scarier is the fact that I considered going to Corpus Christi simply because of the name. Not to mention Atlanta…I'll live there too – just so I can say 'Atlanta' over and over again. Atlanta, Atlanta, Atlanta. How I love saying that. **

**But my immediate concern is these thrice cursed GCSEs. Should probably pass them before I attempt to fulfil my interesting aspirations. **

**Anyhoo m'dears, read on for the epically failing incoherence. The story of my life. **

"**Onward charge!"**

***

Fortarthin seethed, seethed with something close to sheer panic. He had arrived at the king's private rooms only to derive from the ever austere guards that Thranduil had not returned there and had instead gone straight to the Government Headquarters with what was apparently a matter of 'great importance'. They would elaborate no further, much to Fortarthin's irritation. There was no point in Fortarthin following the king – it would arouse suspicion and he knew it was paramount to avoid such an arising at whatever cost.

Instead he found himself striding towards Prince Isilihir's quarters. Someone of high authority needed to know about Mirkwood's fast ensuing downfall, and preferably sooner rather than later. Fortarthin's mind span with perplexity. He didn't understand what Jarvek's objectives were, or if the Nazgul were actually going to play a part in those plans. And he didn't understand why the signs which indicated that there were traitors in the realm had been left for all to see.

Fortarthin turned down another corridor, the sound of his fast footfalls reverberating against the cold walls. The only explanation he had was that the traitors' corpses were never intended to be found. But were they traitors? Huirlith had said that several of the elves had fierce expressions frozen on their faces and that their blades were missing. Well, they must have been the betrayers, for their blades would have been stained with elvish blood – a plausible reason as to why the swords were removed from the scene, probably by the elves in the trees.

He sighed in frustration as he continued to pace through the palace. The elves in the trees were another enigma. Why did they then shoot their own? The elves without swords; the traitors, had evidently been shot by those in the trees. It made no sense. The only explanation was that Jarvek did indeed have the ability to turn a 'friend on a friend'. But then he must have been present at the skirmish. Fortarthin didn't know how many elves had been in the trees although the arrows matched about three. It was possible that Jarvek was also there. They had not tried to follow any prints through the trees because it was ultimately futile; footprints were impossible to track over bark – too hard a substance.

As Fortarthin marched towards his destination in silent frustration, he wished they had tried to follow them.

"May I see Prince Isilihir?" The guards did not move; they barely shuffled.

"He is not here."

Fortarthin was immediately on guard. The guards' countenance portrayed nothing that was overly suspicious, but Fortarthin was a master at reading through such guises.

"Do you happen to know where he is?" he asked indifferently, mindful to maintain a look of innocence.

"No, Lord." Still the guards kept the same nonchalant demeanour, but it held a hidden maliciousness; Fortarthin seen it through their body language. The way they stood perfectly still as though not daring to breathe, as though concentrating on their supposedly impenetrable masquerade.

But the lies were floating on the air, scratching at Fortarthin's conscience with their cunning. Fortarthin glanced at the door behind the devious pair: had he heard muffled voices?

"Is something the matter?" Laeodh, the king's head guard inquired, appearing out of the doorway. Moving his eyes to focus on the blonde warrior, Fortarthin marked interest as present on his face, as to its sincerity; that was another matter entirely.

"I was simply wondering where I might find Isilihir." Fortarthin asked unpretentiously. He was not sure what to make of the situation. It was peculiar. Or rather, in the current circumstances, unnerving. Why would Thranduil's bodyguard be in Isilihir's room? And who had Laeodh been talking to – not himself, surely.

"I believe he is busy."

Fortarthin had never liked Laeodh. He was brusque, haughty, and frighteningly good with a sword, a fact that when coupled with the possibility that he was also a traitor did not bode well for Fortarthin.

"Is there a reason why you need to see him so urgently?" The innocuousness of his tone was just too forced, his look too…uptight…no, something was definitely not right here. Fortarthin prepared to utilise his well loaded arsenal of survival instincts. And he also decided to try his hand at guile; two could play that game. Or four – the guards were obviously in on whatever this twisted act was about.

"I wish to speak to him about Prince Huirlith." He waited for the response.

And there it was; that ever so slight flicker in his eyes. The crack in his mask.

"And what about him do you need to discuss?"

"Did you not hear Kethiron at the council? He is apparently not at his best."

"Indeed I did. But that does not answer the question."

Fortarthin smiled inwardly, with grim disdain. Subtlety was apparently not Laeodh's preferred method of 'interrogation'.

"Considering the king has gone out on an unforeseen errand, Isilihir must then decide who will take over Huirlith's duties for the next day or two."

"I see," Laeodh stated, almost bored. Valar, but the man was obnoxious!

"Indeed. But, Laeodh, why do you not accompany your king? As his head guard I had thought that to be your duty." Fortarthin stung back with a slant of his own. And a possible means of clarification over Laeodh's allegiance.

"There are enough guards in this palace to accompany the king without needing me every single time. But at any rate, Isilihir is not here." Laeodh moved across the threshold, deigning to look at Fortarthin again rather than the tapestry across the corridor, or rather, as Fortarthin thought, he managed to summon the control needed to lie to him whilst looking him in the eye.

Fortarthin knew a threat when he saw one. There was a split second of stifling silence, and then Fortarthin spoke. "Good day then, Laeodh." Sweeping around, he left the three elves in his wake, feeling their eyes boring holes in his back.

Laeodh was a traitor. And apparently he knew that Fortarthin was well informed of the situation.

The guards breathed a slight sigh of relief and each risked a glance at the other, dread in their eyes. Laeodh watched Fortarthin go before striding back into the room, his previously collected calmness now a state of tumultuous reeling – Fortarthin was onto his case; Fortarthin was the last person any sane being wanted onto their case. Hushed voices drifted towards him from one of the adjacent doors. With an irritated growl he walked through it to see what problem had arisen now. It was thanks to the noise those fools were making that he had had to come tumbling out of the door in a ridiculous effort to keep Fortarthin's mind occupied with something else. He had nearly done a double-take when he realised that the person who was outside was, in fact, Lord Fortarthin.

The sight he met would have been a cause of great alarm, had it not have been somewhat planned.

Isilihir lay spread-eagled on the stone floor, his usually well-kept hair spangled across his face. Without saying a word to the obvious culprits who were congregating uncertainly around the scene like a bunch of nosey fishwives, Laeodh knelt down and reached out to find a pulse on Isilihir's neck, moving the bloodied tangles out of the way. Satisfied that the Crown Prince of Mirkwood was not about to die, or already dead, he straightened up.

"When I said 'I want him unconscious, not dead' I was rather inferring that I wanted him in a state that was quite clearly alive. That," he motioned to the body lying in a steadily increasing pool of blood, "is not 'clearly alive'."

Without waiting for a reply, Laeodh ordered one of the sheepish elves into the bathroom to fetch some towels.

Snatching them off the elf, he tore one up and used it as a make-shift tourniquet, wrapping it around the heavily bleeding gash on the side of the prince's head.

Laeodh cursed under his breath – this was not going to plan. The plan did not include Fortarthin unravelling the whole situation. Neither did it include Isilihir lying sprawled in his own blood. No, this was positively disastrous.

"Help me move him," he ordered the nearest person, his voice terse.

Laeodh wiped his bloody hands on to the bed covers Isilihir was now lying upon.

"Someone go and find Kethiron; tell him to come here and bring whatever he needs to adequately mend somebody's head. If he is with someone," he added as an afterthought, "just tell him that he's needed at the infirmary. Then bring him back here when you've got him by himself."

Generally, Laeodh would have assumed that any half-bright person would understand that once they had created a diversion they would then actually carry out the original order, but he was beginning to have serious reservations about the intelligence of these so far inane fools.

***

Kethiron was amused by the scene before him. The looks on the elves' faces had been classic. The look on Laeodh's face had been legendary. And the state Isilihir was in was epic.

"I wonder what your father would think," he asked the unconscious prince brightly, as he stitched up his wound, "if he knew that his infallible eldest had been floored by a bunch of mere novices. The irony," he stated blandly, finishing off his work of art.

"Are you often inclined to speak to the unconscious?" Laeodh sneered from across the room, arms folded across his chest. His attempt to ease his nerves was typical of one so brash. Typical, but ultimately ineffective, unfortunately for him.

"Yes, in fact. That's one of the first things you are taught as a physician – good bedside manner, you see." Kethiron had a rather uncanny knack for riling people up with his perpetually airy innuendo.

Laeodh snorted, having nothing better to say.

"Are you often inclined to making animalistic noises?"

Laeodh stared disbelievingly at the healer's back. The man was unbelievable; he had just insulted one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm and as a healer, he couldn't have been the best fighter in Mirkwood. Laeodh shook his head. Then again, he had always wondered how Kethiron had got into such high favour with Jarvek…

"He'll probably wake up in the next hour or so," Kethiron added coolly, getting up off the edge of the bed, totally disregarding Laeodh's indignation. At the end of the day: what did any of it even matter?

"Alright," Laeodh replied distractedly, his mind elsewhere. He pulled up a chair and sat down on it.

Kethiron looked at him with slight interest. An improvement from his generally bored manner. "Are you planning to give him a bit of grief when he wakes up?"

"What? Well, why not? After all, he'll be dead soon anyway."

Kethiron smiled wryly, before making out to leave the room.

"Kethiron…?" Laeodh called out.

"What?" he asked irritably.

This was a pause and Laeodh felt his heart thrum against his ribs. Was he really saying this? Was this even happening?

He certainly wished it were all just a dream, but that was out of his control.

"Fortarthin knows."

…

"What?" the healer repeated incredulously, turning around, shocked disbelief marring his features. He knew exactly what Laeodh was referring to; a perfect representation of the paranoia that they had learnt to base their lives around.

The room suddenly became a very foreboding and frightening place to both elves. As though the walls had ears and eyes that were tuned into them and them alone.

It was the feeling of being completely and utterly…

…alone.

"He knows – I think…about Huirlith, or else it was a hideous coincidence." Laeodh's chest tightened as the realisation of what he had just said struck him like a lightening bolt.

_He knows, he knows, he knows. _

Looking at his hands the swordsman forced himself to breathe slowly as his stomach tied itself up in knots. Why was he sitting here? Iluvitar in Ea, he should be running after Fortarthin to take him out before anything could happen, before they were all found out and killed. _Found out and killed…_ his heart jolted violently and he swallowed quickly. Sometimes he wondered just why his men called him brave. Really, he thought of himself as a coward, as much as he tried to deny it. Afraid of death. Afraid of failure. Well, he was a failure now, that was assert.

He wasn't brave. Never brave. He was only a denier.

Feeling Kethiron's intense stare he forced himself to remain calm. Whatever happened was his fault; he would accept that, if nothing else. He had to, even to Jarvek. That was duty, and maybe bravery to a certain degree.

That would be his swansong.

His moment of truth. Truth and courage. His paradoxical moment of glory, just how he imagined it as a child.

Only in reverse.

He met Kethiron's eyes.

"Huirlith? How?! What do you mean you think?! What happened?!" Kethiron didn't want to believe it. He wouldn't; couldn't believe it. Not after the extensive diligence, the assiduous planning, the innumerable sleepless nights. No, he was lying – there had been a mistake.

Kethiron audaciously grabbed the warrior by the shoulders and shook him slightly. "HOW?!" he looked mad, furious, his expression finally bringing out what Laeodh too should have been feeling. And Laeodh wondered, from that suffocating room to Hell and back again, just why exactly he wasn't feeling that same hysterical irascibility.

Laeodh looked up at the frenzied elf. "He was testing me, at the door – he said he was looking for Isilihir, and I replied that he wasn't there." His futilely pre-emptive explanation came out in a panicked rush; Curse him, but he sounded immature. "Then I asked him why he was so desperate to see him; was something wrong, and he said that he wished to speak about Huirlith. My face betrayed something, I'm sure of it," he added with a murmur, rubbing his temples.

Kethiron sat down on the edge of the bed. His hands reached out for something, anything to grab hold of. They found the covers and his fingers entwined themselves into the blood-stained sheets. "Perhaps you over-analysed the situation – maybe it was just a coincidence." He knew it was wishful thinking; the nauseating sensation in his gut told him as much.

Laeodh shook his head and rested it in his hands. "No," he said between his fingers. "No. He knows. He's onto it."

Kethiron sat very still. "We need to check his room – he may have been moved. Huirlith, that is."

Laeodh nodded, his throat too dry to speak. Valar, he was a fool! The first thing he should have done was have someone keep a tag on Fortarthin – try and waylay him from telling somebody, or something of that sort. Not fuss about the tackiness of a sloppily done job – it was a job done, none the less! Damn him; he'd wasted so much time! What was he even thinking?!

Laeodh stood up from his chair with a start, and put a hand to his hair. He swore once, twice, three times. His stomach tightened, his heart pounded at three times its usual speed and his knees felt like they might give way. He was a legendary fighter. But he had never felt so afraid.

He couldn't even think straight; the thoughts just wouldn't arrange themselves into any sort of coherent manner. He could only stand there in a cold sweat, panicking to Mandos' Halls and back with his insides turning to mush.

Kethiron looked at him, long and hard. "You've ruined us," he stated quietly. "You really ruined us."

With that he turned and left the room, without another word, his face painfully blank, still trying to deny what was actually happening. But he would have to accept it soon enough.

Laeodh slumped back into the seat next to the unconscious prince.

***

Isilihir moaned. Laeodh started. How long had he been sitting there? Hours surely, if not days – waiting. Waiting for Fortarthin to come bursting through the door with a regiment of loyal soldiers.

But Fortarthin never came. Laeodh glanced down at Isilihir. He wasn't for waking up in any fit fighting state, that was for sure. The prince moaned again, as if to reinforce Laeodh's point. The warrior got up and moved towards the window. It was dark. He would have to mind himself – that daft wife of Isilihir's would be coming in any time soon. That wouldn't do.

Laeodh was a mightily strong man. He didn't waste his strength much, either. Trailing Isilihir up by his shoulders, he propped the limp body against the headboard of the bed. There was a jug of water sitting on the beside table. He grabbed it and threw it over Isilihir's face.

It did a fairly good job in waking him up.

Laeodh wasted no time in grabbing Isilihir around the waist and pulling him off the bed and up to standing height. Isilihir had to grab onto Laeodh's tunic to avoid buckling. His head span dizzily and he felt like he might faint again, as the floor spun beneath him.

"I'm afraid you rather injured yourself," drawled the knight. He yanked one of Isilihir's semi-responsive arms over his shoulder. This didn't have to be a boring escapade. He could brighten it up with a bit of fun and game. It might take his mind off the living hell that was about to become his life.

"I would never have guessed," replied Isilihir in a weak whisper, having no choice but to let the traitorous knight half drag him, half carry him across the room.

"No?"

"No." It wasn't just a simple conversation. It was a subtle act of understanding. Isilihir had realised that Laeodh wasn't there to help him.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Come on. Pick up the pace a bit." Laeodh dragged him on through the study and out into the corridor. No one was in the vicinity. It was his lucky day. His heart pounded with adrenalin-induced paranoia.

"Make a sound and I'll use your throat as a canvas." It was a whispered command that the crown prince didn't dare disobey, as he felt the cool kiss of razor sharp metal against his neck. His insides fluttered disconcertingly. He was scared; not something a prince liked admitting to, but there was no denying it.

This was not a scenario Isilihir fancied being in and reality was slowly starting to catch him up – one of the greatest warriors of Mirkwood was holding a dagger against his jugular and there was nothing he could do about it. Or anybody else for that matter. The phrase: 'My life is in your hands' was really quite an accurate one.

Isilihir had an overpowering and unnerving urge to swallow. Not wise, given the position of the knife.

Laeodh led him down the corridor. He knew the palace lay out off the back of his hand. After all, he was the king's head bodyguard. Or ex-bodyguard, as was more appropriate.

However, knowing the palace as well as his own home always came in useful every now an then. In this case, it was useful in knowing exactly where the guards would be stationed.

He opted to take one of the back routes; one with no guards. Laeodh turned down the next passageway and stopped beside a tapestry depicting Beleg Strongbow rescuing Turin. The knight pushed the tapestry aside and forced open the door that lay behind it. He grabbed a torch from one of the brackets on the wall before entering through the door and descending down the stairs beyond. Isilihir was beginning to gather his wits again, but was mindful of the fact that even had he been fully fit, he still wouldn't be able to beat Laeodh in a fight. Especially not when Laeodh was the one holding the knife, now in the same hand that had been previously around Isilihir's torso, the torch occupying his other hand. Evidently the knight knew that Isilihir was still no match for him, hence his somewhat lax approach to restraining the prince.

The stairs led down to a disused storeroom. Laeodh marched across the small expanse, silently sliding ancient crates and boxes out of the way, but still causing a dusty blizzard to waft around the elves' faces. Isilihir coughed. Laeodh glanced at the door and pushed the knife even harder into his throat. Any harder and he would start to draw blood.

Not that it mattered, though.

Laeodh moved towards the door and put the torch in one of the brackets. To his fortune, the keys to the door were hanging on an old, rusty nail next to the doorframe. He opened the door, one hand still pressing the blade against Isilihir's throat, walked across the dais, and then stopped. Looking around, Laeodh soon derived that it wasn't just the store room that had been in disuse for decades. This whole part of the palace clearly was never breathed in by anyone. Bar the rats, he noted, as a rodent scuttled along the edge of the passage.

He looked back into the store room. His luck was only increasing. There was a length of rope lying across a shelf on one of the walls. He didn't bother wondering what it had originally been left there for. Instead, he simply slammed the door closed, locked it again and dragged a resisting Isilihir (who was alert enough to know what was coming) across to the shelf. He would have to put the knife down. Still, no matter. Snatching the rope from the shelf, Laeodh dropped the knife on the ground and kicked it across the room, out of the prince's potential reach.

Isilihir thought that Laeodh was going to tie him up, as anybody would have believed. However, Laeodh was just that one small step ahead, per usual. When Isilihir ducked underneath his arm, instead of going after him, Laeodh simply yanked the rope across his throat and pulled. Hard. Isilihir had no choice but to comply with Laeodh's wishes and go backwards; backwards or be strangled.

Laeodh pulled the prince across the room while he still had the upper hand. There was a circular ring attached to the wall; a candle holder, and barely wide enough to fit a rope through. Laeodh tackled Isilihir to the ground and managed to get a knee up against his windpipe. Isilihir's hands automatically went upwards to try and shove the weight away from the dangerously vulnerable area, but Laeodh only used it to his advantage. The rope had already come loose from around Isilihir's throat in the scuffle; Laeodh snatched it up and grabbed one of Isilihir's arms. It wasn't an easy task getting the rope securely around the prince's wrist, but he managed it.

Grabbing the other wrist, Laeodh locked Isilihir's arms between his left arm and his torso, using his right hand to wrap the rope around his captive's wrists. Slamming a foot down onto Isilihir's forearms, Laeodh leant forward and pinned his victim down with as much bodyweight as he dared, using his now free hands to pull the rope as tight as it would go.

Both hands still holding the rope taut, he removed his knee from Isilihir's forearms and sent it into his stomach instead. Isilihir tried to gasp in and replace the lost air, but found his windpipe still partially blocked by Laeodh's other knee.

Using his advantage well, Laeodh dragged the winded prince up to a crouching height and quickly fed the rope through the metal ring, pulling Isilihir's hands above his head. He rammed his knee back against Isilihir's throat and tied the rope securely with apt hands. It was mercilessly tight. And it had to hurt.

Laeodh removed his knee from Isilihir's throat, allowing him to breathe again. He then made sure he was well out of kicking reach. Isilihir, still panting from the semi-strangling, tugged down against the rope that held his arms above his head. His was unlucky in the sense that the rope, although old, was still as strong as ever; moreover, it was rope made for hauling extremely heavy loads without breaking; and as if that wasn't bad enough, Laeodh was very, very good at tying things very, very tight.

The rope was going to hold a lot longer against his strength than his wrists would hold against the strength of the rope. He consigned to defeat. At least for the moment.

Laeodh pulled the keys out of the door. There was another set hanging on the ring. Possibly the key to the door behind the tapestry. It was worth a try. He picked up the knife from where it had landed across the floor and pocketed it. Moving over to the torch, he lifted it down and looked at Isilihir. "You don't mind the dark do you?"

Isilihir said nothing. He wasn't going to give Laeodh the pleasure. He just stared stoically at the opposite wall, refusing to let his pain, fear and anger enter his expression. Another rat ran by.

"Good day, my prince," purred Laeodh, breaking the silence. He crossed the room and started up the stairs. Isilihir watched as the light became dimmer and dimmer and the sound of Laeodh's methodical footfalls became lost to the hungry shadows. Isilihir wasn't sure if it was worse having the knight in the room with him or being left on his own.

Laeodh smiled to himself as the lock clicked into place. Apparently the key was for the door behind the tapestry.

He replaced the torch back on the wall and let the tapestry fall back into place. Isilihir was as much a captive as Turin was on the woven artwork.

The only difference was that there would be no Beleg coming to rescue Isilihir. But besides, the tapestry didn't portray the next moments in the scene. The part where Turin inadvertently killed his rescuer, thinking him to be one of his captors.

Perhaps it held a hidden meaning, mused Laeodh, as he walked away from the ominous symbol.

***

**AAAHHHH MY EYES! **

**That's what you must be wailing now that you've beheld the blasphemy otherwise known as my grammar and punctuation. Don't ask me what's going on with my commas because, darling, I don't know. **

**I'm fed up of writing long chapters. This extract wasn't even meant to happen – it's a total digression that ended up lasting a whole chapter. **

**This stupid failure of a story has been going on since Jan. 2009. **

**When I finished it (if I finish it) I'm definitely doing a bunch of one-shots. **

**You say that now… **


End file.
